The Oxventure: Headcanons

by Jocose Sonata

A series of one-shots, or more, detailing stories of each of The Oxventure Guild crew, what happened to them in the past, or in between adventures, and of the world they are situated in. Do note: Headcanon it may be, this is first and foremost a Fanfiction.

~•~

Special Shipment

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Gliding overhead, over rooftops, and over the blue waters, a seagull's screech pierced through the cluttered cacophony of a busy harbour.

The toil of working men and moving cargo forming into an indistinct bubble of noise, the clamour of vague voices indiscriminately showering the air - often overwhelming yet still thoroughly heard - the yells of wares, instructions, stocks, and promises; an active rabble of marketeers and patrons, ever-moving, conducting, and socialising. Gold, silver, and copper, tout guarantees and words of honour frequently pass hands and wily smiles, presented with spoken sweeteners or wry bargains.

Hectic, yet never chaotic. An abiding tide of sound not too dissimilar to the sea.

Throughout it all, one voice is distinctly and exhaustively discerned; the bark of a harbourmaster's orders. Bellows of direction, of poorly worded guidance, of less than stellar invigoration constantly spat and spluttered with wisps of spittle splattering forth from his lips.

Almost overbearing, and even more overpowering, the noise of the dock seems tame in comparison - even engulfed. Despite it all, his subordinates heed his words. Do as they are told. A hard day's labour is worth a fair amount of coin.

Domineering may be the harbourmaster, they cannot deny the quality he produces, and subsequently his unstinting pay. To the port's clientele, the aroma of saltwater and fresh produce of fishery are more but a common smell, but to anyone near the harbourmaster, so is the faint scent of night old ale; a showing of what the man does with his share. More coin for the harbourmaster, better wages for the workers, for as it seems the man is content with what he buys.

Another piercing screech of a seagull was heard once more, succeeded by several shouts coming from a vacant area of the docks. Calls for assistance; questions of origin; responses of place and of business, as wading through the waters is a fair-sized schooner - its sails tied firmly to the mast - gently drifting its way to port. The harbourmaster almost immediately noticed, and just as quickly bellowed for his men to aid the ship's company.

Acknowledging the intention, the crewmembers were signalled to quicken their pace, expending a sliver more effort to finish their work before lending a hand in docking the ship. And after tending to their subsidiary tasks, they then proceeded to go through the familiar motion of what is needed to make port: throwing heaving lines at the dockworkers; gradually lowering their anchor as they neared the wood of the dock; manoeuvring the vessel into place, and then finally roping their ship to the pier, the connection between cleat and piling secured with a brief inspection.

Once done with their required duties the majority of the crewmembers made way to their positions, ready to move their numerous cargo, as others ran basic errands around the vessel.

Following a brief inquiry from an official as to further detail what the purpose of their arrival is, and the general contents of their cargo from a clearer spoken person, the ship's captain obligingly paid his fee and afterwards signalled his crew to begin.

Placing down a broad wooden gangplank, the crewmembers, assisted by the harbourmaster's workers and dock equipment, went about and unladed the ship.

Barrels upon barrels were cautiously rolled down the plank, stowed upon the dock for later haul, and stacked near the edge for space convenience. One by one; two, three, four; after another and another more, numbering ten to thirteen they were rolled.

Systematically down the pier they rumbled, and rumbled they did up to the last barrel, indicated by the heavy groan of a toiling man bending down to put simple pegs of wood placed below the last barrel, acting as temporary support so as to prevent further movement. A precaution, for the pier is slightly inclined towards the sea.

After the workers were done with the barrels, they then joined the rest of the crew with offloading the remainder of their cargo: chests of exotic cloth, rows of burnished furniture, and containers filled with foreign ingredients carried carefully down from the ship. Following briefly were boxes of varying wares, and a fine assortment of eye-catching minerals fit for jewellery; along with the jewellery themselves.

Though most common, and more numerous, are imported building materials and diverse forms of weaponry, both of varying elegance and bare function sent over from neighbouring settlements.

Slowly, yet orderly and efficient, their load was stowed upon the dock.

The dockworkers focused on their job. Performed to their best, if need be, that is. Unloading shipments did not exactly require complicated skills beyond that of the rudimentary, just the necessity for brute strength and careful direction.

Still, they did what they did. They've done such a thing a multitude of times already, up to the point where most do their work absentmindedly.

The harbourmaster sought to rectify that, and replace their focus back on the task; doing without thinking leads to accidents, after all.

A job on the docks, it is imperative that it never occurs.

~/~

With a flutter of its wings and the clack of its claw, a chicken paced steadily across the wooden floor. Indiscriminately pecking hither and thither; wandering aimlessly, clueless as to where it may be, only that it was no longer confined.

A sudden shout of alarm cried throughout the pier; a cage vacant of its fowl.

Almost immediately, several fierce inquiries were yelled at nearby bystanders. Loud and evidently vexed, startling the few who were caught unaware, and frightening the chicken's most definitely unwitting mind.

Goalless tread shifted to rapid trotting as the rooster scrambled between boxes, below unattended wares, over stacked planks, and past swivelling cranes. No set destination in particular, it scuttled fearfully down the pier, fleeing further as the yelling faded.

It ran quite the distance, remarkably so, yet its endeavour is rather short-lived, not to mention to an inapt direction, as a simple focused survey would reveal its location, and an unobstructed atmosphere would alert anyone with the noises it's making.

Nonetheless, the effort was significant enough as its handler had nary an idea as to where his poultry went; to him it merely disappeared. And as reluctant as he is to leave it at that, he has places to be and things to do.

One less chicken is naught more but an annoyance; an annoyance that lingered as he exited the dock, grumbling aimlessly to the air. Yet behind his frustration he knows it doesn't significantly detract from his overall stocks; though it certainly doesn't do any favour to his growing headache, hopefully there's something in the market that would alleviate that.

Panicked movement wavered, and wavered even more.

Slowed, slowing, and growing slower. Cautiously, the chicken steadied to a dawdling gait as danger seems to have been averted.

In truth, barely an eye was batted in its direction, and those that did fancied no involvement. Too indifferent to give public attention. Not entirely uncaring, it was simply beyond their concern. Business is business; they'd rather focus on their own, both professionally and personally; only when the critter causes disruption will they pay proper notice.

Once more, the rooster walked down the pier with aimless wander.

It had neither goals nor qualms for lacking one, too simple of a mind to have a constructing thought. Merely continuing in its stride; its head, as expected, bobbed back and forth with each tread.

Swivelling its gaze side to side, switching from one eye to the other, it took in what sights it could see, wary of any more danger.

Unknowingly, it strode beside a wall of barrels.

Scratching the ground with its talons; it pecked the floor.

Thud…

The chicken perked its head up.

Swivelling its neck, twitching up and down, whatever passes for curiosity struck the chicken. It tentatively moved closer.

Tap, tap.

There it went, pecking at the floor; inching closer with each tap.

Thud!

From the floor to the side of the barrel.

Tap, tap…

It turned its head once more.

Tap, tap- Thud!

The chicken cawed, cut short by a faint splash.

At one end of the barrel is a firmly extended boot, of which a second later was joined by another, and soon after followed by a pair of thighs shimmying itself out, assisted by stiff-fingered hands gripping the edges of the barrel as benumbed arms heft and pulled, revealing a chest bodily snaking its way out. Finally, like the waking undead, a head emerges unceremoniously from the inner umbra.

Stood, sluggishly, beside a stack of barrels is a scruffy, bedraggled man, arising from his slumber like a vampire from its coffin. Reeked with the scent of sweat, seawater, dry saliva, and a ghastly amount of alcohol, with the ill look of exhaustion marring his expression, though unmistakably dashing despite his dishevelled appearance.

The man blinked his weary eyes as they readjusted to the new light, pupils still reeling in from the darkness of the damp barrel.

Stretching his spine, and spreading his arms high above his head, the man breathed out a long heavy yawn. The soreness of his body made evident with several muted pops sounding off from his back, shoulders, and neck.

After which he promptly ducked down and crawled back into the barrel and immediately came back out, this time with an almost emptied flask.

He made no hesitation to rectify that.

Bending backwards as he downed the drink, he unknowingly swivelled on the spot and subsequently stumbled back, making a brief yet strong impact against something behind his foot, followed by a clattering noise.

With the last drop drunk, the man pocketed the temporarily useless flask as he finally laid eyes upon the new location he had found himself in.

Lifting a dull, droll gaze at the bustling port, and further on towards the quaint yet disquieting loom of the buildings behind it, he grazed his sight over at the several worthless commodities, at possessions that were of no merit to his eyes.

Passing impassive glances at the crowd to get lost in, to be left in, to be unknown, and to be wholly nonexistent, to be nothing more than the shadow of another man, the everyday man, whose life will be of no doubt of bland uninspiring existence, destined forgotten in the passages of time.

Sighing to himself, the man breathed deeply before plodding down the dock, ignoring the slow build of rumbling wood, frantic shouts, and the ensuing consecutive splashes behind him.

Paying no mind to the several dockworkers that ran past him in alarm, the man trudged tiredly across the pier. The thud of his boots upon the wooden floor heard solely by him, drowned by the rapid footfalls and the prevailing air of noise, and the bark of a harbourmaster's anger.

In thoughtless mopery, the man listlessly let his gaze to further roam the showcased wares; a pointless pastime, yet preferable to blankly staring at the planks below him.

Fabrics of glamour sewn from far off lands, or whatever dregs that looked exotic enough to fool the unlearned peasant. Luxurious wines of ambrosia quality, likely cheap ale with terrible sales remarketed to have been drunk by lords and ladies. Finest jewels, shiny painted rocks; avant-victuals, victimises rectums; sharpest swords, easily dulled and bought by dullards; brittle hammers, hollow maces, blunt arrows, shabby ropes, ugly tapestry, tacky vases, rubbish chairs, all of it a waste, a waste of his time, and yet another one of his decisions that yielded nothing.

Unsurprisingly, he hardly found any item worthy of mention; least not in this mood. Catching a glint of the sun, he flinched, blinking rapidly; a stark grimace etching the corner of his lips. The light was painful, headache inducing, pounding like an incessant hammer in the back of his head.

It muffled his senses and distorted his sight, smothering him like a sea of pins and needles, numbing his body nerve by nerve. Engulfed by a sickening wave of nausea washing over him like legions of crawling insects, bristling across his skin and up to his face, brushing harshly; twitching… ever-twitching.

The man stumbled forth, his legs briefly losing strength to stand; unable to regain his balance, he stuck a hand out and found its place firmly against a wooden post. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he denied the bile exit, gulping as he struggled for a breath.

His guts hated him, and he hated it back; feverishly growling as he fought back the urge to punch himself in a useless attempt to regain his senses. A fight he would've lost if he had the strength to form a fist; his body felt too drained, too weak, to make any drastic movement.

Gritting his teeth, he made an effort to simmer his temper with a deep breath. Vision still blurry, strained and unfocused, he shut his eyes to ease the fatigue. Leaving his mind to wander the muted darkness.

Memories raging in soft silence…

Astray in heavy waters.

Crashing and moving, pulling and pushing; a clear thought was but a yearning gasp of breath drowning in a sea of enmity.

In desperate need of a saving grace, of clarity, of dry lands to heave and retch, to clear his lungs so filled with salt water, and his mind with maddening grievance.

A wretched writhing wanting for someone, something, anything to fish him out of his own roiling ocean.

Lost…

Anguished…

Descending further and further, as each desperate breath was wrenched away.

Sinking…

Flailing…

Slowly falling into that dark… cold… abyss…

A screech of a nearby seagull did not make him shriek back in panicked-return.

What it did do is bring his attention to a hat placed firmly atop the wooden post.

A tricorn hat, to be precise.

Someone must've left it there.

…

He must've left it there! And very irresponsible of him for doing so! After all, thieves run amok these days, and they seem to take just about anything.

Releasing a soft chuckle, the man made no hesitation smacking the seagull off its perch. Well, tried to, anyway; it flew off before his hand could make contact… straight towards his face. After a brief battle, which ended in a mutual draw if he were asked, the man, not letting the outcome deter his mood, took the hat and - with a small flourish - placed it atop his head, and resumed on his path.

Swerving to the other side of the pier, the man sauntered forth sporting a goofy grin on his lips, and a feather in his hair. The simple acquisition seemed enough to have brought a certain uplift to his mood, to his spirit.

The sensation it instilled was… refreshing. Much the same as taking a warm bath after being caught in the cold rain.

Astonishingly, his mind felt clearer, his shoulders lighter; he felt like he just started breathing again. A clear-cut contrast to the mood he bore mere moments ago; constricted, suffocated, gulping down a breath risked the contents of his stomach coming up.

Now, for the first time since what felt like… too damn long! He felt…

Relaxed.

The realisation choked him, and yet brought relief, kindling a soft smile on his face…

Immediately eclipsed by a dour look, twisting to a grim frown, and back into a thin impassive line.

Despite the solace it brought, he discarded any further thought towards the headwear. It was nothing more than a simple hat, neither special in quality nor remarkable in aesthetic, most likely cheap as well.

Acquiring it wasn't even a challenge, what is there to be proud of? The only profit here was a meagre moment of respite; it's a much-welcomed change of pace, sure, but… nothing to dwell on… or celebrate.

It's just a hat after all.

It was down to luck he even managed to get away with it unseen on a busy dock… and with that, he was struck.

A moment passed, and another more. His bearing steadily shifting, his expression following suit.

Consideration.

To find a different approach, to think in another way… to look, to see in a new perspective… for him to create anew- to become anew, to reinvent; dissimilar, yet unchanged.

Curiosity.

A pondering thought, a wonderful idea… to know, the need to know, to see… if he, irresponsible as he is, left other things on this dock?

A manic grin manifested itself.

Oh~ how very careless of him. He'll make sure to chastise himself for such a blunder. Truly, just foolish. How could he be so reckless? Him, of all people?

Tsk, tsk, tsk.

Honestly, he really should be more careful with his belongings. Again, thieves run amok these days, roaming just about anywhere they can get to, and they will take just about anything they can get their hands on.

He chuckled delightedly, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

These are trying times, if something were to be stolen by some no-good thief, retrieving it would be such a sorely inconvenience. Especially when there are better things to do, and places to be; ill-prepared, and likely inexperienced, to go running off chasing some filching rat.

He doubts he'd be able to financially recover if anything undesirable happens to his precious accoutrements; that would be such a mortifying experience.

So, at once he must quickly scour! And secure his possessions from wherever he may have… misplaced them.

A mischievous tone went unheard on the docks, of childlike giggling wholly hidden, masked by the overwhelming atmosphere, and stifled by a hand trembling in anticipation.

Imbued with strengthened resolve, whatever distress that lurked the corners of his mind seems to have faded away like ashes kicked into the wind. Dismal thoughts withered like a wilting rose, of which it then, with a sudden resurgence of life, bloomed into a cheeky grin and a mischievous look.

A mischievous look darting viper-like, catching a glint in the corner of his sights as predatory eyes preyed upon a blade placed neatly upon cloth. A blade of finest edge, lay naked by a scabbard; why, it would be a hazard to leave such craftsmanship so irresponsibly unattended.

Why, someone could trip and fall, it could lead to someone's untimely end. And on a much busy harbour, removing such risks would be but a service to anyone who treads this path.

Oh, but he can't just simply walk up, and take the sword, sheethe it in its scabbard, attach it to his belt, and… walk away.

That would be stealing!

…

Moving rather quickly away, the man strode forth in unabashed confidence - hunched and loudly whistling inconspicuously - with his hands deep in his pockets. His feet on a swerving course towards the subtly shifting labyrinth; enroute towards the clustered crowd.

The crowd to get lost in, to be unknown, and to be wholly nonexistent: the perfect fortress.

He was only a mere steps away…

In an instant, he was struck! Frozen, statuesque, as all eyes darted towards him. Heartbeat raced as adrenaline spiked, but only for a moment, before his ears finally listened and realised their reason.

Loud and booming, tactlessly bellowing, chords rasping in rage; ears grieved as relentless roaring blew from where the man was mere moments ago. Born of barely subdued panic and pique, echoing throughout this area of the pier, for as it seems… Gasp! Shock! Surprise!

A sword has been stolen! Brazenly stolen right there, out in the open! What shameless dullard would do such a thing?

The man's eyes went wide, an embarrassed pout on his lips. Sheepish, yet, he noted, still to be revealed.

Be that as it may, the yells are vexingly raucous, and, to his disdain, garnering attention. And subsequently an interest, but most of all… it brought the awareness of a scoundrel lurking in the area.

There is a thief running amok…

A thieving coward! A now armed kleptomaniac roaming about the docks!

A fiendish rogue! A filthy pirate! A… Pirate-rogue!

The man's eyes narrowed for a moment, an instance of consideration before he returned his focus to the matter at hand.

The shouting showed no sign of ceasing. A trouble, for as no sooner in their fury that their brash inquiries turned accusatory.

Wrathful, unreasonable; an awful pair.

How uncouth.

As the fingers started pointing, the man seamlessly searched with the accuser.

He regarded each person with scrutiny, making a clear show of scouring, with a face of undeniable ire and determination, blaring with righteous aura to find the miscreant who done it!

Whipping his head left and right, up and down, and even backwards and forwards, he glared at anyone and everyone; making gestures that he was watching their every move, and gestures that one would recoil at.

Truly a man of righteous fervour and upholder of just.

Alas! Despite using his almost inhuman perception, he was not able to find the thief that thieved it. He did his very best. Too much, some would say, as anyone and everyone could regrettably see that. Natheless, he continued scowling at the crowd; perhaps as a warning.

However, such righteous scowling was not destined to last long, for he must not dwell on the turmoils of that which totally and absolutely does not concern him, nor relate to him in any way, shape, or form - if he were asked.

It's a tragedy, for sure. To have something valuable stolen right under their nose, and much worryingly out in broad daylight as well.

As it appears, whoever stole that sword was a master of their craft. Obviously skilled, a cut above the rest, if he must say. And to get away with it unseen, even in a crowd of eyes; not someone to be trifled with, that's for sure.

For now, the mystery of the man who stole a rapier left unguarded on the docks is to be left unsolved. Perhaps, if given time to spare, he'd offer his assistance to the local watchmen in locating who the larcener is.

That time is not today, for he is quite busy in scouring for his own belongings so that he - unlike that hapless, heedless hawker - may better guard it from such prying hands.

Hopefully, everyone does the same. In case no one noticed, there's thievery afoot.

He shook his head in amusement, chuckling beneath his breath at the ridiculousness of it all.

An inapt ample of snickering, slowly simmering into silence, for his sneering promptly evoked in him the utter ridicule that is his own current state of living.

His eyes closed tightly, lips subtly trembling in self-ire, and fists clenched to a death grip.

He took a deep breath. This time… this time it'll be different!

A crash blared, followed aplenty of unpleasant shouting.

He took a deeper breath. This time it'll be different, starting now!

The light of luck has not shined at his side for quite a long time now. The years after that day left him beaten, broken, thrown violently towards an ever-descending spiral into ruin and poverty. Since that day his life has been a cycle of shame and senseless stupor, forced to be a vagrant trekking restlessly across the lands, stumbling aimlessly like the common drunk.

Whatever prestige, gravitas, or esteem he possessed died one by one as the years went by as his life stagnated to a pitiful stop. The weight of emotional oppression has brought him to his knees one too many times to bear, and with each breakdown he thought it the last as he doubted he'd have the strength to stand for another year.

Only the threat, the fear, of death was what passed for willpower to push him through those times. Even then, his spirit waned and wilted with each step taken towards an unset destination.

Wasting far too many years spent desperately escaping the things that chased him, and fighting off those that reached him. And not all that took chase could be fought with a blade.

Bar after bar, bottle after bottle, he sought and scoured, scrambling from one distraction to the next, for anything that numbed the torment, forever postponing what needed to be done in favour of forgetting.

He gripped the hilt of his sword.

No longer…

His life has been dragging across the ground for far too long.

Trudging through the muck and filth for far too long.

He's wasted enough time at the bottom for far… too… long…

No longer!

In the blink of an eye, he thrusted his rapier towards the skies, threatening to pierce the heavens.

From where he'd stood, there was nowhere else to go.

From where he now stands, there is only one way to go.

Up.

His luck hasn't exactly been the best, nor his life, from that day on… but at this point, at this point going forwards, there is no doubt that things can only get better. His luck- his life… will only get better.

Well, no other way to make sure than to put that to the test. This is a new town, and a new town begets a new life. A new life needs a new profession, or more rather a new reputation. Or not exactly, anyway…

Sheathing his blade, he was convinced of this feeling.

It was a new day…

A new town.

A new life!

All there is left for him are things anew. He can only win.

A confident smile presented itself on his lips, a deep chuckle resonating through them, slowly breathing in the seaside air. Staring intimidatingly out over at the ocean waves, a solemn scowl suddenly replaced his smile.

Sharp blue eyes stared with pensive expression, so inscrutable yet so welcoming. His dashing good looks betrays the wisdom born from a history of great experience, from a man with unbreakable will, a man of fearless, awesome stature. So handsome… so cool… he posed for a second more.

He turned sharply, his coat swaying in the- no wait, he doesn't have a coat.

He turned sharply, his gorgeous hair swaying with the- no wait; he has a hat that would prevent that.

He turned sharply, his scabbard hitting the shin of a passerby who immediately tripped, unknowingly firing the crossbow that was in their hands, and shoving a fisherman into the ocean.

The man turned sharply, in the other direction.

Exiting briskly, hurried yet calm. Turning, swerving, and sifting himself through the gathering crowd. Making sure the crossbow he totally had before was uncocked and safely stowed away, hooked onto his belt, obscured from the thieving hands of any lousy cutpurse that just so happens to pass by.

He made extra sure that the leather pouches strapped to his belts and baldric were firmly secured and filled with currency, and various personal accessories; all of which are also newly acquired.

He then adjusted the belts, shifting the one on his waist, and tightening the baldric crossing over his chest to his shoulder, fine-tuning it to be at its most comfortable.

Without pause, the man moved further through the crowded mess, treading from shadow to shadow.

By the time he made it past the first group, his pockets were nearly spilling.

~/~

Half an hour passed by. Many detours were made, and many more accidents occurred.

More yelling, more confusion, and more sudden disappearances of items that were seemingly lost to the void, or often, the sea.

A small fishing boat was lost to the tides. The ropes keeping it in place were found frayed by an arrow, leaving the boathouse it was stationed in freshly vacant; though, in need of some fixing.

By the end of it all, the dock was a cluttered cacophony of vague voices and indiscriminate yells… for an entirely different reason. The harbourmaster's barks were louder, and by now the angriest he has been. Most likely in need of several full tankards of ale to compensate for all the mayhem that has stormed his precious dock.

Passing by the tired vendors, the alarmed patrons, and the ruined stalls. Overlooking broken furniture and shattered vases, and the several shipments wading in the waters among the fishery now back in their home.

A boot made a commemorative thud against the rim of the wooden pier, at the border between stone and timber. The final step, for a new beginning.

Hands on his waist, he gazed at the houses and buildings before him. A serene smile adorned his face, and a pleased look in his eyes, with brows raised in a foxlike arch.

The man arrived at the docks exhausted and gloom, garnished with disheartening thoughts.

The man now walks away from it assured and triumphant, a yearning for adventure and mischief alighting a flame in his heart.

Leaving the pier with the bare essentials for such adventures and mischief.

A hat befitting a captain.

A rapier for a master swordsman.

A crossbow for an eagle-eyed marksman.

Lastly, and most importantly, several bags-worth of coins in his pockets, boots, and anywhere else he can fit them. And a coin pouch, for rationality's sake. Also some variety of tools and paraphernalia to help him along some certain scenarios.

Overall, he is pretty much primed and ready for a new adventure.

He's got money, weapons, and good looks.

All he's missing now is an eyepatch, a coat, and a cr-

A crew… He's missing a crew as well…

Astray in heavy wate-

No matter! He's sure to find a couple of gullible rubes in town that are stupid enough to follow him. And with his captivating charm and wit, success is assured! It's pretty much as good as done.

It's easy! Nothing more but a checklist, at this point.

Eyepatch.

Coat.

Crew.

There, just three things! Three! He's sure to complete at least two by the end of the day.

Heck, there's an eyepatch right there; that's one off the checklist already!

Actually paying the old vendor a fairly generous amount of coin, the man stretched and checked the quality of the fabric, concluding that, yes, it is an eyepatch.

Snap, it went in place. Rubbing the area around his eye, he gave a thumbs-up at the vendor.

Now, just a coat and a crew. He doubts acquiring a coat would be much trouble.

So, all he has to worry about is getting a crew! How hard would that be!?

The man sighed.

Easy as it ever was…

The man looked up, reading the words plastered onto the decrepit, grimy wooden sign.

He took the step.

"Welcome to Casterfalls."

~/•/~

Market Day

---

Far upon the vast restless blue, from the rising froth near the horizon, to the feeble tides lapping against the shore; the spray of warm ocean air swirled aloft, and joined the cold rolling winds.

Taken high, and brought low, blowing far past the sea, grazing the land and brushing the clouds, and washing over the viridescent waves of clustered canopies; gloom-kissed yet glistening green, beneath the blue sky turned dimly - thinly hidden by the grey veiled remains of a midnight shower.

Amorphous patterns, blots, and ever-fading lines of shade painted the grass, erased and renewed as pillars of light - what few that broke through the dark clouds - fitfully illuminated the wide-open fields. Sparkling the scattered sprinkling of dwindling drizzle's dew, it wreathed across and engirdled the forest-encroached grasslands facing the open sea.

Suffused by the ever-lingering billow of frigid howling winds breaching through the crowded trees, chiming the distinct sound of their rustling leaves. Interposed by the mutter and chitter of critters and creatures lively and hungry, and the tweets and whistles of birds high upon branches or drifting in the breeze.

The rush and the subsequent wading of a grand waterfall echoing far from the river's stream, broken and muffled by twisting branches and luxuriant leaves. The wind whistling hushedly through the flora, fluidly weaving by the trunks and bushes, faintly moving the grass to its tune. Wisps of bygone mists littered streaks through the air, and renewed as water meets linn once more.

Arising amidst the ambience, lurking beneath the ever-swaying awning of verdant lush, intruding upon the ample serenity of a fairly mundane forest, came the frenzied sounds of stifled frustration, of indecipherable mutterings growled and mumbled between gasping breaths - it was a much-heated response directed at the toil taking toll over weary limbs.

Fitful complaints substituted with sheer primal snarls, and bedecked with the occasional barely completed cursing spat out through clenched teeth, echoing far yet faintly around the area, and disturbing a number of faunae to skitter and hide.

Several seconds flew by, with each second marked by the rustling shrubbery frequenting the chill air - and growing ever vigorous with each passing moment - before a startling yelp of pain suddenly broke through the noise, seamlessly shifting into an exhausted whimper, blurring into a growl, and immediately followed by the rapid breakage of foliage and twigs. The sounds of which were unsettlingly persistent.

Eventually, and tiredly, at the fringe of forest trees and overgrown bushes, after a further commotion of shaking shrubbery and wriggling branches paving a rapidly fading footpath, a lithe little wood-elf emerges unceremoniously from the cluttered green; wincing slightly as a twig scratches her cheek on her way out.

Visibly miffed and struggling, she irritably - yet respectfully - violently shoved any vegetation away from her path, enunciated by an unseemly snarl. A length of rope, tangled with strands of hair, vines, and bits of leaves, draping down over her shoulder and coiled around her arm like a serpent, with the rest pulled taut behind her under heavy strain and enshrouded behind the thicket.

Following a handful of fruitless tugs, many of which risked her falling flat on her face, she decided to rest for a merciful moment; letting her body - especially her arms - to relax and unwind for a few yearning seconds.

Calming herself to a cursory idleness, standing still in a hunched form, she massaged her hands and cracked her knuckles to ease the tension; breathing deeply, practically engorging upon the air as if it were her last. Rotating her wrists, and rolling her shoulders, she let another minute pass as her hands slowly drifted back on to the rope.

Her muscles suddenly tensed, fingers curled and tightened, she inhaled a slew of breaths in quick succession before she pumped her legs downwards with manic zeal. Digging her heels into the dirt, she stepped forward with a hefty struggle. Her feet sliding beneath her as impeded weight fought against bare strength, ripping grasses from their roots and parting the soil, giving way for the brown to bask in the muted sunlight.

Snarls, growls, and the like filtered out from behind gritted teeth, punctuating each striving step taken, gaining in thrill and intensity till it escalated into one shrill noise heralding one powerful strike into the ground, gouging the dirt deep enough to offer leverage.

Her arms strained against the mass, sore and in need of soothing, yet she denied herself a lapse of labour, rebuking the fatigue by readjusting her grip as she took in one deep breath. Just one more exert, one last heave, one more exhausting tug of the vines and rope wrapped and tangling.

She paused for a split-second - ferocity alighting in her limbs - she pulled and pulled, and inch by inch her latest catch came slowly into view. Ploughing apart the grass and dirt that beckoned its path, dragged forth from underneath the shadowy canopies of looming trees, and with a jerking culminating pull of the cord, she brought forth the limp body of a finely aged deer into the open field.

Finally! Out of the entangling forest floor and hooking bushes, and over to the clear softly lit grasslands.

A long-awaited breath of relief was inhaled and promptly blown out of the wood-elf's mouth as she suddenly doubled over; hands on her knees, feeling absolutely knackered. She panted heavily, taking the time to gulp in generous amounts of sweet refreshing air back into her lungs, and willing her breakfast to remain in her stomach.

Her body buzzing with muted numbness over the strain she had to bear, with a hint of adrenaline felt faintly and slowly fading. And soon after, the weary sensation was slowly suppressed by the sheer satisfaction of a good day's hunt.

He was quite the catch, if she may say so herself! Took the entire half of the early morning to pin him down.

Gazing back up at the deer, she smiled triumphantly as she steadied her breathing; a wisp of pride seeping through a short giggle.

Carefully darting across the woods, bounding from branch to branch, and hiding in bushes. Masterfully stalking her latest quarry completely unseen, and only noticed when it is far too late to react, and sometimes unnoticed at all. Time spent making sure her aim was steady and true, so that she may end the hunt with one crowning arrow.

Well, that was the plan, or at least what was expected, but this particular deer she hunted stole away many of her opportunities of a clean kill.

While it was not unusual nor odd for an animal to be able to evade her arrows, such rarity seemingly occurs only once; twice, if they're lucky; thrice, if she's just not feeling up to it.

This one, however… With this one she never really got a good shot until the very end.

It's not that she's lacking in skill or experience; this is, by far, not the first deer she's hunted. Usually it's more of a mundane task, actually. And any proficient, or just careful, hunter or huntress are more than capable of succeeding in bagging one, and it would not take extreme amounts of effort to do so; unless they mess up really badly.

For someone like her, where hunting is more or less a morning routine - not to the point of excess, she'll stay her bow till her rations run low - a simple deer is naught but an effortless endeavour.

Effortless… for a simple deer.

This one was odd, to say the least. Idling about in the open as if he was never in any danger, or unprepared for it. Which, for a prey animal, is a bit of a death sentence. Though listlessness by itself is not so concerning; his utter lack of activity is. Not even grazing, or eating, it honestly looked like he was a finely carved statue - which is what she confused him for at first sight.

Even then, no matter how long she herself stayed still nor how close to invisibility she was with her nature-honed stealth, he was not as vulnerable as he appeared to be. The very moment she let an arrow loose, the very second her fingers lost contact, he was already away; so swift and so abruptly, if she blinked she would've missed it.

Though, just as she stowed her bow as she stood up to chase, she nearly stumbled over her feet - awash with confusion and intrigue - leaving her narrow-eyed to idle and stare. He stopped, completely, and directly stared back at her, into her eyes. Only a moment later did he move, darting deep into the woods, with haste and with purpose.

There was pause, a blink, and a scowl, then she moved; fast, agile, and determined. It was then where the hunt truly started. She tracked, she stalked, she hid, and she shot; he dodged, he stared, and deeper into the woods he went.

He bounded across the forest floor with an odd pace about him, directionless but seemingly with intent. Though often he would stay still for a few excruciatingly long seconds before slipping away right as she nocked another arrow in. A sight she grew to find quite vexing, as overtime she could feel a measure of mocking confidence whenever he does that.

Apparently, her little venture was subject to ridicule, and she could not help but feel an underlying sense of mischief that came about it. Once having been led through thick bushes only to step on the tails of feeding wolves, then having to fight them off - or much accurately, running far enough from their meal - before continuing the pursuit.

Along the way contemplating if she should just give up and go after another one, as this was quickly proving itself to involve more annoyances to deal with, with far too much unwarranted effort to be of any worth. But, all the same, reminding herself why she cannot, and why she must succeed today; along with some pride to uphold.

Although, it did not help that the route he took was one she was surprisingly unfamiliar with - try as she might to steer him to her advantage - and evidently one he very much was familiar with.

The path bore past triumphs, it seems, as aged arrows embedded the surrounding, and methods of entrapment lay triggered and untriggered, broken, or simply ineffective - and yet another dumpsite she has to clean up - as well as claw marks, clumps of ripped fur, and even some shattered fangs scattered about.

She was not his first pursuer, that she could tell. Escaping and eluding many such predators and hunters alike, it's no wonder he didn't take her attempts seriously. But her tenacity was nothing to scoff at; she was not one to relent so easily, despite the many signs that she really should have.

Despite the many signs that he should have. It did not take long for her to realise that he, as well, was not one to relent so easily. And as it appears, he has lived a rather long stressful life because of it.

His legs, while wholly capable of agile feats, have buckled and faltered in brisk instances during more frantic moments in the hunt. Still, he pushed himself forward, ignoring the toll on his body. While that's pretty much a given behaviour for a prey animal if they were relentlessly chased by a predator, consistency was not to be found in this one.

There were many, many instances where she'd lost sight of him, and while she could've easily tracked him down nonetheless, he could've just as easily put as much distance between them as possible during that lapse of pursuit, especially when he seemingly knew this area of the land more than her.

The times where she'd lost track of him is where she'd often find him just at the edge of her sight, still as a statue, staring at her with a curious look. Almost always just at the edge of her sight, or just past the threshold of obscuring bushes. Just waiting.

With each miss of an arrow he reacted with a dawdling pause just to stare at her, a pause that lingered and increased in length as she made her determination known.

The moment another arrow was poised and ready, he was already away. Always ready, equally unyielding.

The longer the hunt went on, the deeper into the forest they went. And his pauses lengthened until he merely stepped aside from her arrow, and stayed where he stood; above another discarded litter to clean up, in the form of an old empty bottle.

She was not blind to the change, neither was she immune to it; her reasons for the hunt have shifted along the way.

She knew what he wanted, and understood why he waited…

Of all the hunters, all the predators, could she be the first?

Could she do it?

Her answer was poised and ready.

Centred, straight at the head.

No more room for error, or for pain.

Quick, and over with.

…

Oh, but damn it, he made her work for it! That was so bloody exhausting!

Missing fifteen arrows from her quiver, all but one of them embedded somewhere in the forest.

Chasing him around left her legs aching for a sit down. And that sensation was long before actually finding him, not to mention the actual hunt, and of course having to drag him out of the deepest neck of the woods.

One couldn't fault her for getting a little frustrated, and admittedly gloating - inelegantly she might add - at finally burying an arrow in his face; which he also tried to dodge.

Plus, it was such a long walk, too! He was - still is - heavy, his antlers kept getting stuck on something, she had to steer clear or simply trigger some untriggered traps, and more often than not she had to frighten, and fight off, other predators that sought after an easy meal. Especially wolves.

It was such a pain lugging him all across the forest.

In fact, if she didn't know any better, she'd think that he deliberately led her through the deepest, densest path of the woods just to make it as hard for her as possible even after his death!

Her breath stopped.

She stared at the deer, unmoving as the soft wind brushed against her foliaceous clothing.

A thought occurred…

She stared, and continued to stare.

From the trees, a flock of birds took flight, cawing as they flew overhead. Cawing, sounding eerily, very eerily like cackling to her ears.

Slowly, her eyes closed tightly.

Breathing quite deeply.

A groan echoed out over the lands; stifled and silenced, overwhelmed by a swift breeze rustling the mass of canopies.

It was then where she was reminded that she still has a long way to go before she reaches her destination… and she is not anticipating one bit of it!

Another tired sigh slowly left her lips, bordering on a whimper, as her body bent over once more in exhaustion. Letting her arms swing limply down before her, gently swaying in motion, in tune to her breathing.

Her fingers idly danced above the dirt, fingertips just barely touching the ground. Taking the moment of silence to simmer down bubbling emotions, staring right below her at the ruined grass and disturbed soil.

Steady.

Solely breathing.

She regarded the deer, looking back up at him.

A moment passed. Another breath taken.

Closing her eyes, she reared up then lowered a knee, placing a hand down onto the dirt. Palm firmly laid, fingers outstretched, she uttered a small apology.

It was a good hunt.

No… a great hunt, for a great deer.

A fitting end. An end he made her work for. The same one he made everyone else work for, of which none ever succeeded in.

She gave him a thrilling hunt, and finally put rest to his ageing body.

Steady, but not without falter, she succeeded.

Pushing air deep into her lungs, filling them to their fullest, she exhaled a plume of warm breath into the cold wind.

Slowly, she stood, letting her arms fall to her sides, tilting her head upwards to the sky; hood sliding down and dropping to her shoulders, and revealing her face to the emerging sun above.

Dedicating this one moment, breathing… simply breathing. Her body ached a little less, and her energy regained with each passing second.

Her mind, once whirring, now quelled. Cluttered thoughts, silenced.

Attention piqued; senses astute. Her focus finally unhindered… she listened.

The rush of rivers echoing from afar, the crashing waves reverberating through the air, and the soothing whispers of the wind whirled and danced around her ears.

Peering through nature's music, she listened intently for the clamour and toil, the muffled raucous ambience of her destination.

Turning around, gently opening her eyes as the glimmer softly blinded her, and blinking through the haze to clear her vision.

The view, as always, was magnificent. The sun shining, the grass glistening, the sea shimmering… and the town riveting with activity.

She smiled.

It's a long way to go, but as far as she can tell… it's worth it.

Sighing to herself, this time with barely a hint of irritation, she bent down and grabbed the ropes entangling the deer. Bringing her attention northwards, she recognized the dry dirt path leading from the town and through the forest, as well as seeing a scant few travellers trekking to and fro.

Preparing herself for another tiring walk, she dragged the deer towards the path, staying close to the edge of the forest.

The haul was easier, much easier, now that there's nothing obstructing her way.

It's just grass, no tree roots or thorns to get hooked on.

It's just smooth sailing from here.

Still strenuous, but it's definitely a lot less annoying. It would've actually been a dull walk if it weren't for the view… or for her anticipation.

It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Well, for an elf it's not so notable. But months are still months, she still recognized their length, and despite feeling like it's been only weeks, her mind experienced it much the same as anyone else… anyone not an elf, that is.

She began to wonder how everyone has been after all this time.

Well… she didn't exactly have friends to check up on, but she acquainted herself regularly enough, and safe to say she has a good-standing reputation amongst the populace - to the few who knew about her, at least - so she feels a little excited to see how just about anyone has been after all this time.

It doesn't have to be anyone specific, she's just excited to see another person. Living out in the forest all by herself, it can be a bit lonely.

Well, not exactly. There were still the creatures that roamed around her quaint little den, whom she'd had engaging conversations with… occasionally… when they show up. They can hold these conversations quite well… as well as an animal would- of which is fine! They're more than adequate, and fairly vocal enough.

Though, admittedly, none were like the ones she had in the past with him.

Still! She enjoyed her chats with the local fauna. She truly does! Why wouldn't she be; they're all so cute and adorable!

She sighed… And yet, at the end of the day they're still wild animals, they don't really stick around that often, nor bring much riveting topics to talk about.

Nevertheless, she had a pleasant time with them, especially when they're adorable… and if they weren't rude… or trying to eat the other- which is totally fine; it's instincts, she can understand that. But still, preferable if it didn't happen mid-sentence.

She still holds regular tea parties, and they all have enjoyed it so far. Particularly the food, but not so much the tea.

Fairly understandable with what she has to work with, locally speaking.

Nodding to herself, she made a mental note to pick up some actual tea leaves in the town, and some teacups as well… and maybe some saucers, and possibly a pitcher, a tea caddy… and a chair, and a table.

Actually, scratch the last two out. What she built is actually really good, and she is admittedly proud of her work on it. Made with materials directly from nature, using branches and roots, leaves, vines, and some good ole' dirt and clay; polished, and hardened using fire.

Although she definitely would much prefer it if her teacups were actual ceramic, and don't taste faintly of dirt. Or maybe it's due to how she stores them, or rather, where. Should she get a cabinet, as well? Either way, she was fine with what she had…

…what she made.

She stopped in her tracks. Blowing air out of her mouth, her eyes closed in irked disappointment.

She was fine being alone.

She had no qualms with it whatsoever, she likes it as much as being among other people. It's peaceful! And besides, she wasn't even alone all the time.

She was fine either way.

She scowled, sighing to herself with a breathy snarl. Her lips pursed with familiar annoyance.

If she was fine with it, then it's unnecessary for her to even think about it, and so she dropped the thought with a bit more vigour than needed.

She resumed walking, exhaling softly; ridding herself of any lingering ideas.

Placing her focus back on the ground before her, she finds herself nearing the pathway. Staring at it, she wondered if maybe she could hitch a ride from a passing wagon. Many vagabonds do it, to the point where she often wonders why no one has made a proper business out of it.

Although, if given the option, she would much rather choose not having to pay for it. But, either way, she's prepared to give something as payment if she has to. She could give the driver a share of her earnings, or perhaps a piece of her catch, something she's fine with as long as it's not wasted.

Arriving at the side of the road, the deer was dragged beside her feet. She followed the path towards the town with her eyes, and swivelled behind her to see a wagon rolling up; far, but nearing with moderate speed.

She took the time to tighten the ropes holding the deer, securing his legs, and making sure his antlers were in a good position. As she does, she can't help but gaze back at the town, staring at the bare houses exposed at the edge of the district, unobstructed from any outsider's viewing.

She'd always wondered why they've never erected any permanent walls. She knows one of the reasons why is that despite having settled here many decades ago, it's only recently that they've started up on some renovations when their current lord made some very lucrative deals which reasonably boomed the economy.

Soon after it started to gain some attraction from other settlements, opening it up for more trading, and even tourism; which was a somewhat unforeseen benefit from those lucrative deals. Something that was both welcomed, and met with circumspect scrutiny. Thankfully, the former was more prominent.

While the town wasn't exactly poor, it wasn't the wealthiest either, nor the most notable. The years spent in modest isolation, all that time developed a fairly exceptional relationship amongst the local populace.

Virtually no one was a stranger, or at the very least no one was unrecognised - besides the passing travellers, of course. If they weren't a friend, they were an acquaintance, if their name is unknown, their face surely was. Just about anyone knew each other in some form or another.

This gradual barrage of new arrivals and the sudden shift in social climate caused some reasonable unrest in the community. Fortunately, it was nothing too drastic. Simple complaints and the like, and those yearning for the older days where it was a lot quieter and tolerably uncluttered.

Opinions, however, were quite quelled due to the current lord anticipating the reaction the townsfolk would have after the first influx of tourists, and as such prepared accordingly. More lucrative deals, plus the thriving economy quickly quieted those with entrenched sentiments.

Overall, the town was shaping up for the better. It was pretty alright - as far as she can tell - and despite all the changes, it still kept its old-fashioned charm and fair accessibility, just renovated to keep up with the current age. Not to mention, better structural integrity.

A quaint town where anyone can have a fresh start. And now with it achieving some level of prosperity, the process was made even easier and more open for just about anybody to begin a new life, or to start an adventure.

It's honestly one of the finest towns around.

Well… as far as she can tell.

She's not exactly the best person to ask about these kinds of things, since… well it's a bit embarrassing, but her life hasn't exactly been the most adventurous kind. Despite having all the time in the world, with nothing really holding her back, or keeping her in place.

She hasn't even gone out to the sea before… She hasn't even been on a boat! The farthest she's gone has just been on the beaches! Mostly to converse with cute little crabs, and the occasional seagull that tried to eat the crabs. It's fine, it's only natural, it wasn't even all that shocking to her… after the first time.

Going out on an adventure? She would've loved to! She truly would… but she never really got around to doing it. Even though she'd made mental plans on how she'd go about realising it.

Many mental plans, in fact. Too many, actually. Very… concerning… amount…

Still! Even with all that, admittedly fruitless, planning she never really managed to build up the courage to… well, she's not exactly lacking in courage, it's rather the commitment to actually carry it out.

She might say that today will be different! But she said that last time… and now she's coming back to the same town she's known for decades, lugging the corpse of a deer around… again.

She sighed, dropping her head down with her eyes closed.

Alone… it's hard to muster up the energy to go.

The creaking sound of wooden wheels, and the faint clopping of hooves promptly pulled her away from her thoughts and alerted her that her - hopefully would-be - ride is approaching. She quickly finished inspecting the rope of the deer and proceeded to wipe some dirt and leaves off her person; better to make herself presentable to the driver.

She spun around to face the covered wagon, and stuck a hand out; her thumb sticking up.

The wagon slowed and lurched to a halt, the driver patting the horse's back to soothe it; which is good, that means he takes care of it. The driver looked aged, but not elderly, with a short greyish bushy beard. A piece of wheat in the corner of his lips, and a worn straw hat on his head.

He seems to be a simple villager coming home after some sort of travelling job, she guesses.

The driver leaned back, looking at her expectantly, staring lazily over her and towards the deer by her feet. She bowed her head slightly and smiled politely, asking if she may hitch a ride into town. She then gestured to the deer, and gave the obvious reason why she requested it.

She was about to offer him either some coin or a portion of the deer as compensation before he stopped her with a raised hand, and proceeded to jerk his thumb at the back of his wagon. She sweetly uttered a thanks before she pulled on the ropes of the deer, dragging it behind the back of the wagon.

Ignoring the heavily hooded man slumped beside the entrance, she proceeded to hoist the deer up with surprising strength belying her lithe appearance, putting the deer into the back of the wagon quite easily, though with visible struggle as even until now it's still a trouble to move.

Placing it down in the centre, she adjusted its position so as to not bother the apparently sleeping man and the other objects inside, after which she gave a few short knocks on the wood of the wagon, signaling the driver that they're good to go.

With a small lurch, the wagon started to move again; softly rumbling as it went, caused by the rough dirt path. She proceeded to sit on the other side of the entrance, trying to continue ignoring the dozing man, especially his loud snoring, and completely missing his golden skin as he shifted in his sleep.

Bringing her hair over her shoulder, still messy from the hunt, she began grooming and untangling it as she prepared to tie it back up, idly watching the withdrawing wilderness as the wagon rolled away, somehow already feeling homesick, while also feeling thrilled at the prospect of leaving.

A small smile formed on her lips.

It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Despite that, she still knew what day it was.

What particular day, exactly.

It's one of the reasons why she was so keen on succeeding today; so even through all the annoyances, and the frustration… and exhaustion… and the aching… and just generally the whole slog she put herself through, she still maintains that it was worth it.

Regarding the deer once more, looking back into the wagon, he was definitely quite the catch, wasn't he? Despite his age he was still sprightly, even as lithe as the youngest deer. Perhaps it's safe to assume that his meat is just as fresh, if not more succulent.

Beaming with pride and satisfaction, today was definitely a successful hunt, if she may say so herself. Shifting her eyes outside the wagon once more, looking at the now distant forest still billowing in the breeze, and shimmering under the emerging sunlight.

Hearing the rustling of leaves, and the songs of birds on treetops being gradually suppressed by the creaking wooden wheels and clopping hooves, which soon after was joined by the crashing waves, and the hush of rolling winds.

For a while, it was all she heard.

For only a while, as the gentle sound of the rumbling wagon was also starting to subside, softly overtaken by the echoing clamorous hammering of stonemasons, blacksmiths, and carpenters toiling far away, and the faded cheerful giggling of kids playing with careless wonder.

Intermittently, fair gossip and lighthearted conversations - those of differing topics, of various pairs and groups - came ever nearer, louder and clearer to her ears, sprinkled with little laughs, and spoken in eager tones.

Perking her head up, as anticipation bubbled up inside her on the prospect of her arrival. Feeling a hint of agitation as she entered the vicinity of her destination.

Feelings that intensified as wicker fences started to enter her peripherals, lining areas of flattened grass, often connecting to rustic houses of wooden and stone variety. A handful of hovels scattered here and there, with timeworn palisades - often broken and rotting - interspersed in paltry sum, breaking up the scenery.

Such buildings were quaint, simple-built, and primarily functional. Lightly decorated, merely some forms of individuality to discern from the dissimilar yet consistent designs.

The wagon continued further down the dirt path, slowly unveiling more sights to behold. One such sight she could clearly see off in the distance was a massive waterfall streaming from the side of an elevated cliff face overlooking the forest, and spraying an ever-fading mist.

Staring at the falls, she couldn't help but let her mind wander, reminiscing to a particular time; having once met a rather important man at the site. She remembered his foreign accent, and his gentlemanly disposition that belied his intimidating aura. He was a dangerous man, she could tell. As well as she could tell that he was a good man that did not believe himself to be. Regardless of what he thought of himself, his influence was felt, and duly beloved; so much so that the town was named after him.

Letting the memory drift away, she switched her gaze the other way, seeing the rolling hills that mimicked the high waves of the sea beside it. Another remarkable site, as on one of the highest hills stood a quaint little chair. A simple piece of furniture cushioned with an equally simple pillow serving as a memorial of the man who once waited night and day sat upon it, only to meet a roaming warband before they crested the hill, and pulled off such a level of deceit that they willingly spared the town.

Giggling at that memory, as she personally witnessed the event, sat high on the treetops. Unfortunately, neither the townsfolk nor her heightened elven hearing could make out what he said to divert them, and he was playfully tight-lipped about the subject, and fancied himself quite the jester as he told a different tale each time he was asked, and often more elaborate than the last.

Although rumours did spark that out of all the versions told, he'd let slip one tale that is absolutely true. A rumour he neither denied nor confirmed, wholly amused and humbled by their curiosity.

He's but an old man now, still he is regarded as a folk hero, and still he would regale to anyone willing to listen how he'd done it.

Still, after all these years, the memory was fresh in her mind.

Such is the benefit of a long life-span, able to be a witness in many events that would be remembered only in history.

Her eyes settled downwards, idly watching the dirt path marked with ever-fresh hoofprints.

Remembering a time when the town was just paving this very path… and a time when there wasn't even any path at all.

It was somewhat surreal, in a way. Having been a witness of this town almost from its very infancy, all the way back when she was still quite young and still learning, it would seem such a long time ago when she first developed an odd sort of pulling interest towards it. And yet as she reminisced, despite all the years that have passed, the decades flew by her eyes like minutes, and for all the paths the world could offer, she finds herself returning to the same town over and over again.

Sure, she's travelled before, trekking through a respectable variety of what nature has to offer for the first decade or so of her lifetime. But she never really ventured out of the forest all that much, not too far at least; always sticking close to the wilderness, most of the time atop trees.

She has seen her fair share of villages, settlements and the like, though when it comes to the matters of socialising with its denizens, the attempts were… to put it mildly, lacklustre. She has been a bit, not exactly shy, more akin to anxious about interacting with folks back then, especially since they were all strangers to her.

So, it piqued a certain wonder… Out of all places, why did she settle here? It's a question she could and could not answer for herself.

Is it because she was here before them? Possibly; the towns she's seen in the past existed long before she came around.

Perhaps she feels a certain investment; after all, she has practically watched an entire town settle and flourish. Seen it fall to the brink of ruin, only to triumph and adapt to their mistakes. Seen them battle unneeded internal conflicts, depose a rising tyrant before he could secure lasting power, and return someone worthy to take the title of lordship. All before their first decade has passed.

She herself has fought against bandits sneaking in the woods, and leaving them tied up - the live ones, that is - at the edge of the forest for the town to deal with.

Well… suffice to say, she is invested.

She knows, and understands, that it is probably one of the reasons why she's unwilling to leave so easily. Something she realised not too long ago, and something she's strived to break out of, fruitlessly so.

Worse still, despite all the years, despite her interest, her involvement, she still has not made what could be considered a friend in the town. Acquaintance, maybe; not one friend.

Although she did mainly stay in the forest, which likely did not help her situation. It would not surprise her if they barely acknowledged her existence, or even knew that she lived not too far from the town.

Though, perhaps… there was another, more likely, reason why she stayed. Why she would later on feel an innate reluctance to leave. A subconscious tether she could not untie.

Maybe it was not the town that kept her.

After all… it was here where she first met her friend, the first one she ever made away from her home.

It was here where she freed him, where she spent time with him, made memories with him; joking, laughing, talking, whom she confided her innermost thoughts with.

It was here where she last met her first friend, the first one she ever made, so far away from her home.

Here, where she laid him down to sleep.

…

It was not the town that kept her.

Maybe… Perhaps it's a combination of the two. Who could answer?

No matter which it is, the issue still lies with her.

She let herself become stagnant.

It's not exactly something to be shamed for, but it is something she shouldn't be. The world is wide and full of wonder, and she does have all the time to experience it.

Stagnation does not befit her. It feels misplaced. Quite honestly, it feels off-putting.

Another thought occurred. It is surreal, and strange, how the very issue why she stayed, was why she left…

…it's just like home.

It's decided then!

The first chance… the first offer… she's there.

No question. Maybe concern, but no question.

Hitting her head on the wood behind her, the sudden pain proved effective in tearing her away from her thoughts.

Hissing in pain as she rubbed the back of her head, and letting out a muted yelp as the same pebble went under the other wheel, it took her a few moments more before she fully realised where she was exactly.

Gazing back out of the wagon, her eyes softened, as a faint smile formed on her lips, staring at what's been causing her measures of anxiety all morning. Here they are, walking nonchalantly beside the road. The humble townsfolk. Completely ordinary.

Unassuming, modest-minded, simple folk going about their day as they would any other day. Although, perhaps not exactly for this particular day. Nevertheless, they walked the road unconcerned.

The arriving wagon garnered some fair attention as it cruised by, especially with her gawking out the back with wandering eyes. A couple of kids waved in greeting as they ran by, as some adults gave a welcoming smile as they noticed her staring at them; most just gave a polite look of acknowledgement.

She recognized none of them, knew none of them, regardless, she reciprocated with a peppy wave and a warm smile.

A wisp of fondness stirred in her chest, and unwanted nostalgia in her mind. She dispelled the memories, as soon as it came.

The atmosphere of the forest was a far contrast to the town. Yet it was so similarly vibrant. Equally lively. So distinct in their charm; she truly found comfort in either place, even if she leaned more on the former.

It was difficult not to mimic the beatific cast she saw on the farmers' faces, carrying their baskets filled with their harvest as they walked steadily towards the town centre.

Something of which swiftly reminded her of her own purpose for coming here. Rousing herself alive, she smiled brightly as her eyes widened with delight.

There was a reason she decided to hunt today. A reason why she went through all that trouble. A reason why she dragged him all the way over here, instead of just bringing him back to her den.

It has been a long time, hasn't it?

While the months felt like weeks, she still knew what day it was. It's because of this particular day.

She hunted with passion. The same passion to strike any hunter or huntress worth their salt.

Yet despite the thrill of the hunt, she still has a principle to uphold.

The wagon continued to roll on by, heading straight towards the centre of the town.

Be respectful.

The anticipation welling up inside of her chest, she readied herself.

No piece wasted.

She tried to contain her excitement.

All put to use.

Well, there's nowhere better to adhere to that than here.

She gazed out the back of the wagon, at the unfinished cobblestoned streets illuminated by the growing sunlight, watching the gathering crowd grow ever-lively around the varied stalls lining the town square.

"After all, it's Market Day."

The wagon lurched to a stop.

"Welcome back to Casterfalls."

~/•/~

Amongst The Crowd

---

The centremost lay cobble and lumber, the stone for the streets in progress, and the base of few buildings; the wood, versatile and most prominent, evident in near-all craft works, from the support, to the walls, to the roof, to the tools that helped put them there.

The plaza, wide and open, a courtyard with no castle, perambulated with many-a folks busy with their lives, trading, haggling, buying, selling, and simply socialising. Travelling to and fro, across, abound, a-turning around, through the streets, pass the crowd, down sloping roads, and uphill alleys.

Job offerings, quests, rewards, and general postings, where town criers convened, and hawkers made sale, it was a hub of activity raucous and joyous, where coin could be earned and lost, where services are hired, where information could be gathered, and all led to from wending roads; roads beset by looming buildings, constructions for living, for work, for worship, a traveller's inn to rest, or a place to drink, yet none cluttered the centre. They surrounded the centre, yet never crept any closer.

The paths that formed and layed, natural and purposeful, from the lords to the peasantry, hovels to mansions, from the sea to the forest, from mountain passes to the rolling grasslands, the paths held no set direction, and many could arrive from any location. By ship in the harbour, through the dense of trees, from the valley between mountain cliffs; make way to the centre, and out the opposite end, it made no difference.

Travellers are common, and faces pass by every morning and every night; with gold, none are all too bothered where they come from or where they go, only that they pay, with coin or with work.

Still, though how many trekked through went uncounted, and none offering to do so, some arrivals are often too odd to cite as mere common travellers, and trouble, meagre it may be, follows those kinds wherever they roam, for better or worse.

Each one has a story in their heart, a reason why they venture so far; clear or vague, many follow it uncontested, but not always so eagerly. Some pursue it throughout the lands, hoping to one day vindicate that reason. Others don't even know exactly what they want, only what they were told.

Differing desires, all the same they walk the path, converging without notice; opportunity trailing upon their shadows, all it takes is one encounter, and a lifetime of adventure comes right after.

The roads that lead through dirt onto stone, from serfs to nobles, from stranger to stranger, the road is still stepped upon, and whose feet they belong matters little, nor where they head.

~/~

Lapping tides, swaying trees, and cloudy skies; past the high rolling hills beset by forest and sea, approaching the hovel wreathed fringes of peasant and cattle dwellings, upon a tread tracked dirt path towards the southern ingress of a wallless town, a trill of melodic notes rang out into the air.

Skillful strumming complemented by low cheerful humming.

A jaunty tune most well-strung, played with sincere charm, inciting interest from the bystanders that may hear it. Chaste, yet filling. Soothing with a hidden yearning, yet never showing.

A simple ditty to amuse oneself and for no one else, all the same amply fancied.

It was not of any song nor should be classified as a proper song, it was nothing more than a concocted melody to pass the time. No bearing, no meaning, it was made simply for entertainment's sake.

Chords that change at a moment's notice, and notes that altered in tone according to the musician's thoughts. Unrestricted, flowing freely without order or purpose. Truly, it was chaotic.

Yet it was a chaos most comforting, for it is a song, merely medlied. It was in there, interjected with new notes; an experiment, to see if a bit of change might spice it up, while still trying to stay true to origin.

It was a song just not played in its entirety, nor in its purest form, saved for a later time as for now there were not enough to hear it. Though perhaps a chord may strike out, a distinct chord that may bring familiarity to the only one able to notice it.

Perhaps… but it's a long-shot. Which is why it's better if it's played properly, especially in a big crowd. For now, a little jumbled ditty will do; taken as a warm-up for the fingers, it won't do to stutter during a performance because a joint or two was a bit too stiff.

It may also serve as practice, but for this particular song it needn't any more practice, for the chords by now are known by heart, able to be played with closed eyes or, oftentimes, unknowingly.

Conveying greatly of the importance of this song when it is so ingrained that playing it can be delegated to muscle memory. Of course, playing it that way leads to a lack of emotion, or passion, as if played by a golem, something which will not do during a performance as it is then bereft of thoughtful purpose.

It is known by heart, and needs to be played from the heart.

In any case, this simple melodic tune welcomely pervaded the air, dancing through and fro, and around the many ears that so happen to hear it. The music soared overhead, and between roaming bodies, flowing like water down a rocky river.

Albeit unlike water, it is entirely unconfined, the melody reaching far as the instrument could produce; skywards to windows, balconies and roofs, down sloping alleys and faintly into open buildings and through its walls, rounding street corners like scouring hounds or grasping hands.

Such a peculiar spectacle is bound to pique interest, and as it made way upon the winding earthen roads, many were starting to wonder the source of such melody.

Turning heads, eliciting quiet gasps to those caught unaware, many eyes find themselves gravitating towards a towering form pushing itself through the passing crowd, and leaving many necks craning upwards in fleeting daze and curiousity.

Although, pushing would entail applied force, but absolutely none were to be found here. It simply walked - dawdling against the masses - turning, swerving, and sifting itself through the mob, ambling blithely to its unknown yet desired destination.

Staring up at what could be described as a walking pillar might've instilled a bit of unease, perhaps even intimidation, to witness it striding forth with nary a thought of who's in front of it, how quickly it avoided collision, and how easily it does it; nothing that big should move so swiftly - cleaving through the crowd with belied grace and finesse.

Yet none really felt a hint of fear, nor sensed malice from the form. While there was some slight trepidation, it's rarely maintained for too long, and quite difficult to even do so. Beyond the rusty battered pauldrons, weathered shirt, and the rapier on its hip, just from the look on its face it was evident that it posed no threat - especially so, with what it gingerly cradled in its arms.

Sweetly strumming on an endearingly modest-sized lute, light-footed and gentle in gait, with a pleasant smile etched on his lips, innocently marching ahead with innate nonchalance is a rather tall and charming half-orc; watching bright-eyed at the new location, surveying the ever-passing crowd with curiousity and mild delight.

It was a new day, and a new town! And he has been trekking for quite some time now.

Many tiring weeks spent hiking through the mountainous forests, along damp marshes, through fields of tall grass, across long stretches of land, and through dense woods and rocky rivers. Hunkering down in makeshift shelters when he's truly exhausted, or simply lying on the ground, or often against a tree - or on top of said tree.

Such is the career of a wandering bard, wholly entailing a life of wonder, and - unsurprisingly - wander; no set abode, save for the very ground he treads on, between valleys, below high cliffs, beneath the bright sky, and to midnight moon, his feet have carried him far, and ofttimes his eyes been subject to sights to behold.

It has been a good long while since he'd last stayed in a settlement. A good long break from his last performance… And long since he'd last seen another person. Such is the career of a wandering bard, he always had the nicest view, though often no one to share it with; deep and far in the heart of the wildlands, isolated beyond the creatures that roamed around, and the song still warm in his heart.

…It's just like home.

Though, isolation by itself never really instilled a strong sense of loneliness in him - not anymore, at least - so it's not too much of a bother in his wandering life. It just brings an overhanging cloud of nostalgia during the entire trip; capricious, is all he'll divulge towards the feeling.

However, by now that feeling is long gone, therefore best left behind; if the torrent of bodies and flickering eyes were to go by - as shallow and trifling it may be - he's not all that alone anymore.

It's a new day, and a new town, and it is quite the busy town, this one is. Not an unfamiliar sight, by far, but it's definitely much more than the previous towns he's been in. Now with that being said, he hasn't actually gone into a proper town before, so he hasn't really been to enough towns to warrant a remark of a new town.

Although, now with that said, he definitely has been to what can be conceived as towns; most were quaint and quite delightful, however, with their size they were more akin to villages when compared to this one.

Still, it was a new day and a new town regardless of his opinion, or what they actually are. He's still a bard no matter where he may wander, and a damn good one if he may say so himself, and regardless of where he is, there will always be a place for a bard to play.

Whether on the streets, alleyways, bridges, boats, or more commonly in taverns - of which he can confidently say he has played in a lot of taverns in his travels - a bard always has a place to perform. It is one of the benefits of being a bard, no matter what, he has a readily available way to earn some funds.

Albeit with varied profits, but the amount was generally not his first priority.

A decent room is good and all, but sleeping on some soft dirt surrounded by the forest is just as comfortable; he has had successful experiences with scavenging before, so paying for a meal is a luxury he treats himself with when it's within his budget, or for a special occasion.

Basically, he can live off of nothing but the land itself. As such, materialistic things did not exactly have significant sway over him; always content with what he has, and appreciative of what he can possess. Of course there are always exceptions, but even then, he's not overly invested in them to leave him too downtrodden to function if anything gets lost… or stolen.

It'd be a shame and a pity, that's for sure, and he'd feel a bit - a lot - upset if he finds some things of his missing from his pack, but oftentimes it's nothing that can't be replaced. How easily, and the matter of quality, varies; in most cases he either forgets about the item entirely, or no longer sees value in having it again.

Really, in all of his belongings, there's only one thing that he can never lose. Both figuratively, and literally, in whatever way it's referring to.

Thus, payment is not always at the forefront of his mind, nor does he put gold on such a pedestal. He understands its value, vaguely, but at the end of the day he'll be just fine - with or without. That doesn't mean he'll pass up a chance to earn some fair coinage, it just means he's not overly concerned with it.

Speaking of which, as he walked down the street, he had already made passing notes of places where he may perform, and earn said payments. Remarked before there were of course taverns, pubs, and the like, scattered here and there; most street corners, alleys, and open corridors were always available to buskers and bards, so he can play over there if he has to, or if he just wants to.

As always, his options are many if not endless. Especially so when just about anyone in town could spare a coin for his musical services - he is more than willing to play privately - having performed in front of commoners, criminals, low aristocrats, from young to the old, to one and many; if he ever truly wanted a hoard, he'd have it quite easily - how long he keeps it, is subject to debate.

More so, he's not exactly limited to just music, a healthy helping of odd jobs here and there have expanded his skills, minor and overt.

Few to note: His artistry, painting portraits personal and commercial, have reliably earned him a gold coin or two - though the quality depends on effort put and time available; having once aided, somewhat, an investigation with a detective, he learned how to do some measure of forensic work, such as how to produce a negative print of a document. And though generally pacifistic, a scuffle here and there have made him proficient with a blade, quite lethally so, despite having no formal training.

So, if entertainment is unwanted, he still has something to offer for things a bit more daring in nature.

Though for now, he's not looking for a venture, nor is he looking for a venue.

He's looking for a vantage point.

An ideal place where many people would be gathered.

Somewhere public and easily found.

Someplace he can sing and be heard.

Somewhere he can be seen when it's heard…

It was a new day, and a new town… and he has been to many towns.

He has played in many places, many times before.

For a very long time… For so many times… And for so many places he has sung one same song every single time for every single place he has ever been in all his life.

To a point of wonder, for a task this drawn-out, surely he might be getting a little tired singing the same song for so long, and for so many times, for nearly all his life.

In times of darkness, he'd often find himself falling onto that path of thinking. Such thoughts are almost immediately dispelled, forgotten and replaced.

It's not productive to think about it too much.

Thinking about it leads to things he doesn't like.

It's not productive to dwell on bitter things.

Why dwell on something so trivial at the moment, on something so melancholic? He won't accomplish much if he weighs himself down with dismal thoughts, so he rarely lets such things linger - at least for more than a day. And as he learned, no matter what happens, there's always something good waiting at the end of it.

Even if it takes a very, very, very, very long time for it to reveal itself. And besides, the way he sees it, his life has only been getting better… can only go better.

Even if he was a victim of petty theft, or simply beaten by brutish drunks or bored thugs, the days can't go darker for him; there's nothing else for him to be surprised by.

There's nowhere else to go but up.

So why worry? Why dwell?

The good and the bad will always come to pass, so why focus on the bad things and make them last? Why not focus on the good things and make sure they never fade.

Make it something to fall back on when the world seems like it's starting to fall apart. A mental solid ground to regain his senses, simmer down emotions, and organise his thoughts.

Somewhere to breathe.

Just breathe, that's all! That's all it needs, that's all there is to it!

Just breathe… And realise that, no, the world is not breaking.

No, it's alright if he messes up once or twice.

No, it's okay to feel upset over things.

No, it's fine having all his gold stolen.

No, it's okay having an axe thrown at his face.

No, it's alright being beaten in an alley with no one caring to help.

No, he's not some freakish mistake.

No, his sister still cares about him.

No, their parents did not abandon them by choice!

…

Just breathe… just… breathe… and know that everything… Everything is just fine.

That he's just fine… he's okay… he's alright…

After all, he might not know it yet, but maybe today will be the best day of his life. And if not today, then maybe tomorrow… or the day after that, or the day after that, or the day after that!

There's no telling, really!

So…

Why worry?

Why dwell?

Why should he let misery drag him down?

The sun is still up there no matter how cloudy it gets. He just has to give it time for the clouds to float away.

He sighed, stopping in his tracks, allowing his head to clear some space. Letting his ears skim past the music, he brought his attention to what's around him.

He's starting to amass a small following, he noticed. Though scattered, few, and fleeting - and most did so for sheer curiosity's sake - it's a following nonetheless, and he won't deny them a performance if they so wish it.

He best gets a move on and find an ideal place to play; can't keep the audience waiting, after all.

Strolling further down the street - rounding corners, reading directional signs, and simply following the crowd - he let his eyes to roam with a clearer intent to scour, flitting from alleys and roads, against the backdrop of buildings of lumber and cobble, wattle and daub, one to two stories tall and some even higher, under construction and long since established.

Plucking a sweet chord from his lute, he left it to simmer until silence, to which he then plucked another chord of different tune to complement the last. Shifting his eyes left to right, he hummed to accentuate his surveying gaze.

Plodding down the dirt and cobblestoned streets, entering what seems to be the town square, his music echoed out far throughout the air, destined to be heard by many, but unfortunately was left inaudible by the raucous activity of yet another lively and successful market day.

Very lively, if he must say. A lot of people visiting, and meandering, purchasing whatever goods they wanted or required. A lot of the townsfolk are gathering here, and some that aren't even from the town.

Well, as far as he can tell.

Though he doubts that what is quite clearly a wood-elf would choose a building over the forest. And don't even get him started on the only man looking like a pirate trying to skulk in the crowd.

Speaking of the crowd, as he continued to watch, it appears that a fair amount of them seem to look for something other than food, or wares, or supplies.

Something… entertaining, mayhaps?

Well, who is he to deny them that option?

As luck would have it, it seems he has found himself his vantage point.

There, near the middle of the plaza, is a newly built fountain. Well, fairly recently built. It doesn't look like it's finished, that's for sure - no water - but it's a decent enough spot.

Heading directly towards the fountain, the half-orc skimmed past the idling mob, skirting behind the wood-elf counting her coins by a notice board, and cautiously walking by the roguish-looking pirate, making sure he wasn't within arm's-reach of the man; can never be too careful with these types. In short notice, he reaches the fountain without trouble, and - as far as he can tell - still has all his money on him.

The rambling noises seem faded here, as if it produces its own bubble of quietness. It helps that none of the vendors set up a stall here. Nearly all of them were off to the side, on the sidewalk, near buildings, of what he assumed were houses and workplaces, and subsequently attracted most of the crowd away. Leaving the fountain available for anyone who wishes to visit and gaze, and free for him to set up.

Though, there's not much set up to be had. All he has to do is place down a cloth, preferably with some weight on it in-case a gust of wind blows it away, and then stand somewhere in a spot where he can be easily seen. Or, optionally, stand on something - likely the edge of the fountain itself - as for sure that added height will make seeing him easier.

Other than that, he's pretty much done.

Good and ready to sing his song once more.

Her song… once more.

He sighed, all too familiar with the blunder.

He could compromise! Say that it's their song. Something he considered practically every time this occurred, but… he's going to need approval first.

He can't just take it as his own, it was never his to begin with.

Sure, it was sung to him, but it never belonged to him.

He just borrowed it, cared for it while its owner was away.

Making sure it's never forgotten.

Making sure that he never forgets it. And potentially remind the owner in case they themselves may have forgotten about it.

Much like how he was forgotten?

It's his, for now. But it won't be forever.

He promised himself he'd return it.

Like how she promised she'd return!?

No!

No…

None of that.

None of those thoughts.

Don't dwell on those thoughts.

Those thoughts are bad, ignore- forget them.

Happiness is just around the corner, he just needs to play the song, just play the song and those thoughts will go away.

…

He sighed.

He figured he had expended the last of those sentiments.

As it seems, there are still some lingering emotions bubbling in him. Feelings of resentment, bitterness… anger… So much anger… And can he be blamed? After all these years of abject abandonment and seclusion, can he be blamed?

Left alone, in a house that's just as alone, in basically the corner of nowhere, deep in the woods, and high near the base of a mountain no one knows, where the nights could freeze tears to ice as they formed.

Completely isolated.

As a child.

A weak, cold, and hungry child.

Not knowing what a disease is, much less he was afflicted with it. Only knowing that he staved off death by some miracle.

He wasn't told of anything about the lay of the land, other than it's dangerous to stray too far from the house, or to even stay outside without a watchful eye.

The idea, the concept, of other civilizations existed only in bedtime stories; mythical in essence. Only when he was older did he even think they were real.

Left to fend for himself, raise himself, all alone, for years. Waiting each and every single day sitting on their porch, hoping, ever-hoping to one day find her walking back home. Waiting, waiting, waiting, for years.

Alone.

So…

Can he be blamed?

Is it possible to blame himself even further?

Can he condemn himself more than he already has?

What else is there to say after all these years?

That he should've listened to her?

That he should've stayed inside?

That he's an idiot, that it's his fault why he almost starved to death, why he almost froze to death?

That it is his fault why he was mauled by a rabid wolf in the first place?

That it's his fault why she's gone, it's his fault why she left him, that it's his fault, it's his fault, that it's all his fault!?

Just stay inside, always stay inside when she's out hunting, she's told him this multiple times, if he'd just listened to her, if only he'd just listened, if he'd just stayed inside on that day, for once, on just that day, that one day… she wouldn't have any reason to leave.

…he wouldn't have any reason to leave.

So… Can he be blamed?

Is there anything else he can blame on himself?

What is there to say?

What more can be said?

What else?

She lied to him.

Of course, there's that. That's fairly recent. Praise for originality.

Directed at someone other than himself, for once.

She promised she'd return.

They lack the bite, probably because he'd heard worse… felt worse.

Try as it might, the dark thoughts only proved effective on himself.

She should've taught him better. Raised him better.

The feeling is laughably weak, tiny, especially when compared to his darker thoughts.

It was almost cute how much it tried. And try as it might, he could never develop anything less for her.

Why would he think less of her?

She failed him.

She raised him.

All alone. By herself. Deep in the woods. And apparently since infancy.

She was never even there. Always too busy.

She had to provide. Of course she's busy.

He was too young to be of any significant help. Much too young… and irresponsible.

She never did teach him how to light a fire with flint and steel, never even told him about them in the first place, and they never left her person; the risk of coming home to see their cabin burning was too high.

She left with the only means to light the fire.

Yes… She did.

Those were many sleepless nights, and so cold, so very cold; balling himself up with all the linen and fur they have in that cabin, all in a desperate need to get warm.

That is, until he himself learnt how to light a fire. She may not have taught him, but he's watched her enough times to get the gist of it.

Well, he thought he did. How many freezing nights had passed, how many times has he sat still-shivering in a cocoon of cloth bashing two things together - and long before he figured out the right materials to do it with - is best left forgotten.

She's a terrible sister.

She's not. If she was, she never would've raised him. But she did. She still raised him. And with no help; no one else in that cabin.

No mother and father, they were nowhere to be seen, not even a semblance they even lived in the house. And if asked, his opinion of their absence is neutrally apathetic.

He doesn't know what happened to them, nor does he care enough to find out.

At the end of the day, she was there with him, not them.

She hated him.

She was the only one.

She abandoned him.

The only one he had.

Left him to die.

The only one that mattered.

Alone… in the cold.

The world could burn and crumble for all he cares, as long as she's there with him then everything is going just fine and dandy.

She's not worth it.

She is.

She's the only one worth anything.

He could lose any amount of gold, he could even lose everything he had…

He could be beaten, hated, insulted, and scorned, and none of it would matter to him…

Nothing else matters…

As long as he knows she's out there.

Is she?

…

Is she!?

The crowd is waiting. And he really shouldn't keep them waiting.

Of course, he'll be starting his performance with a classic.

A song he has played in every single town he has ever been in.

Every single time.

Then, some other - less important - songs afterwards; much of it he'd heard from other bards, and some originals he has come up with during his long wanderings.

Not to praise himself, but they're pretty good. They're mainly about the things he's seen, or the stories he'd heard, and of course the minor ventures he himself was involved in. Nothing too grand and epic, just some local trouble, little reprobates, or a dangerous beast in the woods that needed to be taken care of.

There were also a few songs he wrote that were a bit more personal, much of it based on his thoughts, about something from the past or something recent.

Feelings, in moments of light and dark, what he felt back in that cabin, and the days after she left, and what he'd experienced travelling from the corner of nowhere to the first town he arrived in.

Spending all that time alone, for so long, he could sulk about it - and has - but it's also better to just be productive.

So there's the benefit to that whole… incident.

Great writing material. And later on, great scenery.

Jotting down notes under a tree overlooking vast grass plains, who could ask for more?

Hopefully, one of these days she'll hear his songs. Hear her song. Hear his voice.

Nothing would make him happier than to sing for her… especially after all the times she sang for him.

Hopefully, that day will come.

He chuckled to himself, light yet of dark tone, of twisted humour.

Hopefully, as if hope has anything to do with it.

He just has to keep looking.

Keep singing.

Keep wandering.

It doesn't matter how long it takes.

It doesn't matter where… or when… he won't stop looking for her.

He will never stop… not then, not now, nor ever.

It does not matter how long it takes.

It does not matter how far he has to go.

It doesn't matter…

None of it matters, as long as she's out there…

Whether or not she's still breathing…

As long as he finds her.

He's content with just that.

That's how far he's gone.

When he's been searching for so long, for so many years, he's fine with just finding her.

For so long he sought for an answer, so far has he travelled for it, and how much that desperate need for an explanation gnawed at his psyche.

What will he say?

What will he ask?

What will he do?

So many times he dreamt and imagined her standing right there in front of him, grabbing her shoulders, screaming at her face, and confronting her in blazing rage: Just why did she leave!?

Why did she not return!?

Was she tired of him!?

Has she hated him all along!?

What's wrong with him!?

What did he do wrong?

What can he do?

Just say what it is, and he'll fix it.

Anything…

As long as she stays.

As long as he's not left behind again.

As long as he's not back in that cabin… alone.

So many times he dreamt and imagined… and wished to have died that very day in her arms…

So many times better… so much better than to live by himself for the rest of his life.

…

Those days are gone. He's spent so much time thinking up scenarios, it did nothing but torture him.

He has since stopped. He can only go so far.

It was not productive. Or healthy.

What's the point of tormenting himself any further?

It doesn't really matter what he thinks, what he'll say, or what he'll do… as long as he finds her, that's all that matters.

It's gone on for far too long, he just doesn't have that same vigor he had before.

Far from the child brimming with optimism and hope, past the juvenile spilling with rage and bitterness… All he's left with, a hollow acceptance and a thin yet steady drive to keep searching.

Throughout it all, despite what he felt across those years, he didn't stop, he just didn't stop.

It didn't matter what his thoughts were like, what darkness that lurked, no matter how much he wanted to just stop and finally live his life devoid of guilt, and wanting, and desperation… he never did truly stop.

Never relented.

Despite the many, many signs that he really should have, and to maybe, finally, just…

Move on.

He didn't.

Not once.

It's the one reason why he left. The only reason why.

His one and only purpose for what has been all his life.

He should see it to its end.

Though… perhaps, at the very least, maybe he should start and… apologise… to himself.

Forgive… himself, for at least one of the many things he blamed on himself.

Maybe even ease up on the search a little, and have a bit more fun on the way.

While he doesn't consider himself a serious man, he has been quite stern to himself over the years; he still has his humour, but he never really lets himself be distracted by anything if it doesn't go in line with his plans for that day.

Staying at a town for just enough time to replenish any provisions that he can't forage, and getting all the information that he could pertaining to her whereabouts - if she even stayed in that town - before he promptly leaves.

Many parties have asked, and wished, he could join them. Instead, he chose to be alone, neither wanting to be a bother, or be diverted from his search. Dedicating all his focus, all his time into looking for her.

That needs to change.

At least try.

Try to forgive himself, and to have a little more fun.

That's a good start.

So that maybe, when the day comes…

When he finally… finds her, he'll be a lot healthier than the last time they met.

Physically, and mentally.

Hopefully.

…

The crowd is starting to take notice.

He really should start by now.

Unless…?

No. Nothing.

He's made enough progress for the day, significantly more than the last, if he must say.

He's on the right path.

He may not know it for certain, but something tells him that this is the best day he'll ever have in his life… even if it takes him a really, really long time to recognise it.

So, what else is there to think about?

What is left?

What can he say?

Except…

He strummed his lute, loud and as audible as he could make it.

At long last, he would play her song in full.

The crowd finally took interest, and in short order he had their wide attention.

Tapping his foot, bobbing his head, he smiled bright and charmingly, looking out over the crowd.

Swivelling his gaze, grazing each person with a sliver of his focus. Searching, as always, for that one face amongst the crowd.

Finally, he addressed the gathering mass.

"I've got somethin' to tell ya!

I've got news for you~!

Gonna put some wheels in motion,

Get ready 'cause we're comin' through.

Hey now, hey now, hear what I say now

Happiness is just around the corner!

Hey now, hey now, hear what I say now-"

He stopped…

He saw… No…

He thought…

"…I'll be there for you."

~/•/~

Just Another Day

---

Overlooking the forest, the rolling greenfields, and in great view of the vast blue sea, the tumultuous rush, the turmoil, of freshwater torrent showered down from the colossal moss-covered cliffside.

Splattering trickles and drops against the ever-wetted rockface, piercing and merging into the ample pool directly below, the clash saturating the air with whirling haze and perpetually moistening the surrounding flora to verdant lush.

An incline of fractured ridges connected with the crag, wide and trailing away from the oak-covered escarpment where the grand river falls, and heading directly towards the ocean; it was the vine-rifed stone bulwark that lined the north-western fringes of this region. A sloping broken land, elevated high and towering, forming a weaving fallen wall of ancient rocks and soil, leading to a smooth earthen ramp curving away from the direction of the sea and onto the grasslands; presenting a sheer mound of moistened dirt against the wind-swept spray of saltwater waves - with deep dead roots scattered about its outer rim, jutting out like beckoning talons.

Laying right across from it is a boulder strewn, sparsely wooded hill of lofty impressive length, following the edge along and over the open waters. Merely half the height of the earthen ramp, still it opposed and met its towering presence, and formed a chasmic shadow-lavished valley in-between.

Near-ever perfused by grey oceanic mists mixed with fine dust, it was a gloom-rich path with curiously gained acclaim for its rampant rumours of unearthly alarm; stories of ghostly silhouettes, disembodied whispers, and an unnerving sense of being watched.

Though often fitful in truth and credibility, all the same it persists in the minds of the locals, and common knowledge of the world indeed brings an actuality to such tales - which subsequently stir further interest.

Even so, commonality for such phantoms to exist seldom reaches these lands. A rather comical complaint of few people, it seems mundanity curses the town. The wider populace, on the other hand, favours the utter bore; best to live in dullness than struck with a trouble that can't be fixed by a simple serf.

Despite its reputation, the valley path continues to be tread upon - infrequently it might be - as no matter what ghostly story or rumour is told, not one traveller has failed to return from their journey, at least not due to anything otherworldly. The relative quietness of the path has seen its fair share of roving regulars through and fro, and most soon come to acclimatise to its eerie nature and later on venture forth unconcerned of any spectral encounter - though some do still feel a little spooked.

Generally, the path is taken to get to a neighbouring settlement past the valley, a small village near a quarry, where stonemasons predominantly visit to practise and hone their craft, as well as help prepare newly cut stones for ocean transport; in exchange for a discount for any material purchase. Among the few recurring visitors were the town jewellers, who'd often personally look into if any notable precious stones were found by the quarrymen - and to as well hone their skills, if they have the time.

Although, much of either group were not always too eager to make the trip. The road to the village is rather strenuous to get through, fairly steep and widely bumpy, and quite inadvisable to ride a cart across, sluggish as it is, and the risk of rolling back or tipping over is rather high, especially with heavy loads. All the while horses are a lot more finicky the further in the valley they go; not entirely reluctant, but unusually cautious where they step.

Barren, as well, akin to an empty palatial corridor, uncommon to meet another traveller on the way, and to those that do were naturally inclined to behave with immediate caution and suspicion.

An aperiodic yet ever on-going accounts of highwaymen patrolling the area, and the actual possibility of being waylaid unprepared, and be numerically or lethally disadvantaged, is a strong source for trepidation and hesitation to trust a passing stranger; with cited site of usual sightings occuring at the midpoint between the village and the town, which is at least an hour long trek on a fairly brisk pace and considerably more at a dally, it is far from the swift aid of either sanctuary to feasibly retreat to.

Thankfully, the encounters were not all that prominent to begin with, and ofttimes what victims there were are left unharmed; though expectedly lacking in coinage or any other goods, and justifiably upset to be a victim.

Regardless, no matter what amount of threat these thieves may actually bring, the danger is still felt, and none are too willing to express doubt at bladepoint and risk becoming an example.

With all that said, while it was rather rare to be brutally beset by bandits, peculiarly enough there has been a slight increase in the number of reported sightings these past few months. And worrisome as that is already, a dead body has been found by the roadside more than once; to the shock of the unlucky passerby.

Devoid of anything of value or, disconcertingly, nothing at all. Not only were there bodies with no evidence of pilfering, but sometimes there were no bodies at all, only the semblance of a scuffle that ended in misfortune; whether in death or abduction.

Those dreadful discoveries have understandably unsettled the local populace, especially when it was clear it was not the remains of a robbery gone wrong. What accursed fate befell those poor souls is knowledge still yet to be uncovered, and in honesty hardly wanted to be shined upon. Better to warn and be mindful; simpler to take precautions, whether in the form of combat-ready tools, or an armed escort.

In light of all this, the common travellers of late have been widely reluctant treading through the valley path, and only the openly equipped and foolhardy would enter forth unconcerned. In the case of the former, those scoundrels would in turn heed caution; it would not be prudent to gamble against the lethally capable.

Treading between the earthen ramp, and the lofty hill, scraping stone and soil with nearly each step taken, dirtied boots skittered across the ground. Absentmindedly walking with a clear destination, leisurely making their way towards the seaside town.

A figure ambled ahead, tiredly so yet still with much vigour to spare to make the trek. Feeling the building strain on their feet, and the residues of mental exhaustion of the night before, after a long venture filled with mystery and danger; of combat, and tactful conversations, of sudden heroism, and villains to dispose.

The man exhaled a breath of relief upon seeing the town within his sight. Assumedly taking much solace for the evidently near ending of their wearying quest.

While it only took a day - half of that, even - with what social stress he had to deal with personally, he likely felt a little of his lifetime pass by with each awkward and tense encounter.

Maybe the adventure they had was one he never should've taken.

Well, in any case, he would be the least liable to be easily demoralised due to mere fatigue, as no matter what's actually going through his head, it doesn't refute the fact that he certainly looks glad to be back.

In some form or another, once their gaze landed on that seaside civilisation, it was rather telling that the others felt the same way.

Well, mostly all of them.

Treading between the earthen ramp, and the lofty hill, scraping stone and soil with nearly each step taken, dirtied boots skittered across the ground. A pair followed by another, and another, and another more; dawdling alongside each other, moving forth in a small cluster.

A modest group of four leisurely wending their way through the mist-wisped valley; lightly knackered yet far from being dispirited. Walking, talking, shoulder-to-shoulder, practically parading themselves with how loud and nonchalant they were to tease, mock, and joke; their pleasant camaraderie keeping light and mirth in the wake of a tiresome journey.

Not counting the one figure trailing behind only slightly, and seemingly on purpose.

The four continued to fill the air with trivial conversations, all of which echoed weakly against the rock face and the hills' boulders, and further saturating the air with progressively incessant chatter.

Spouting contextless references that happened in their own past, and comedic commentary about the things that just happened the night before. Back through the valley, back in that village, that tavern, behind the alley - not the barrel - and out on the streets… red was on the streets.

They were more than content talking amongst themselves; laughing and giggling amongst themselves. Banter, praise, pestering each other as all friends do… And they have been doing this ever since they left that village, which was hours ago.

By this point it was starting to get annoying, and try as she might, they still don't seem all that interested in talking about how she killed that one highwayman on their way here. The blood is still on her, actually, though dried up and mostly blending in with her dress.

The tiefling sighed, uncrossing her arms to reign a strand of hair behind her ear - and away from her face, hastening her steps towards the group, and only slightly to catch up.

A bit of an anomaly for her, curious even, that they would be so reluctant, so bashful about bringing it up. Staring at her so strangely, as she would to them; at their pious revelry born of their heroic deeds.

It's not like they haven't murdered anyone, either. The fighter, the cleric, the ranger, and the other ranger, all have blood on their hands. Not literally right now, but definitely last evening. They were no different than what she did, they were just not as messy, or as concerningly enthusiastic about it. But still, murder is murder, they've all done it, so why the disinterest?

Why is talking about the details of how she mutilated a wastrel taboo, but talking about cracking someone's skull open with a poleaxe isn't? Though, admittedly, they did try apprehending yesterday's ruffians first before resorting to violence. But still, they were praising each other for a deed well done viciously cleaving through those roadside scoundrels, how's that different from being proud of a good disembowelment?

Okay, they also weren't so descriptive about it, nor put much focus on how they did it, nor brought it up as often as she did. But still! Technically speaking, they're both atrocious deeds. Unlike them, she's proud of her atrocious deeds, and doesn't coat them in moralistic excuses.

She sighed once more, breathing out her grievances.

Well, either way, it doesn't mean that much in the long run. She's satisfied all the same. They got the job done, dealt with the problem, killed some people, and are now heading back to get their payment. Said job being to investigate the whereabouts of a local blacksmith's business associate - a craftsman-in-training - who was tasked with an errand in the village, and has not returned since then.

To put it bluntly, they're dead.

Not by highwaymen, but by a thuggish drunk and his friends in the village. Beaten in a dark alley, and stuffed in an old abandoned barrel. Quite grisly, if she must say, making the death of the drunkard all the more satisfying; while what's left of his battered buddies got the shackles. Preferably they all should've died too, but a cell is just fine with her. And unless she wanted to join them behind those bars, she couldn't exactly execute them right in front of the gathering guards.

At the mention of payment, she'll be earning twice the reward, actually - well, presumably - as along the way they came across a jeweller standing right in front of the entrance to the valley; heavily distressed and frightened to go in alone, as the young lady had only learned of the increase in highwaymen just hours before they met her. Apparently, the lady used to be a resident of the village, and has been away for quite some time, and had just arrived in the seaside town that very day.

The fighter, either smitten with the lady or just being a goody-goody, almost immediately offered to let the jeweller join the party for protection. And while he asked for no payment nor did he expect one, the lady highly insisted, being too modest to take acts of kindness without a form of recompense.

She, on the other hand, accepted the lady's promise of reward quite easily, and a bit too eagerly the two rangers remarked - behind her back - but the lady in question had no qualms with it, and looked to be quite pleased that someone accepted the offer. After a brief back and forth, the others still refused, so the lady compromised and paid only her for protection. So, with the blacksmith's, that'll be two rewards for her.

She herself had no qualms with being someone's bodyguard, being more than readily available for hire, more than fine doing a little odd jobs here and there. Though preferably involving some measure of excitement; mostly violence, and anything arcane, or even a mystery to investigate.

Such is the career of a freelance warlock, taking what quests they can get - that they can feasibly accomplish. Not too often do commoners favour their presence, what with the worshipping of evil or malicious ancient deities in exchange for power, yet still the services of a warlock are cheap, and quite flexible, so just about anyone can hire them to go do some arcane dealings; however reluctant the contractor may be.

From the mundane to the criminal, to cure a curse or place them on someone else, to the binding of souls to an object - although that all relies on the warlock's personal skills, knowledge, and experience. While other magic users may question or outright refuse a given task, the majority of freelance warlocks' only concern is if it will affect them in the future, and even then they're not always thinking of the consequences. Of course, it depends on the individual, but usually they're indifferent to it all. Unless their respective patron says otherwise.

Regardless, she was hired; they all continued on the path - with the jeweller in the middle of the pack, defended against highwaymen, successfully escorted the lady to the village, she got her pay, they found out what happened to the craftsman, and are now walking back to the town for the blacksmith's reward.

Exiting the valley, now unobstructed by the boulder-strewn hill and the towering earthen ramp, straight away she could smell the faint scent of saltwater blowing in from her left, and hear the rustling of the vast forest, and the rush of the grand waterfall far in the distance to her right, and could just barely see the high rolling hills on the other side of town in front of her.

They are ways away from the town area proper, but they're making expectedly steady progress. It was just a relatively brief expanse of lowly inclined grassland - with a tree or a rock dotting the empty fields - that would take only about half-an-hour's walk, and half of that if they were on a cart, before they could reach the fringes.

Still, the party has yet to cease in their chatter, and even more so now, directing the subject matter to what they'll do after they get the reward. First coming to mind, ale! Obviously. Then food, then some finer lodgings - as fine as they could get, that is - then simmering towards items, personally tailored garments, a new weapon, or just trinkets they took note of before they left.

Of course she herself would spend her share of the gold; her current clothing could certainly do with a bit of replacement, for one. Nice, dark, and representative as they are, some armour would be nice. And, if she could find one, purchase a tome of ideally eldritch origin. Though, she would not bet on it; quite lacking in luck in that regard.

Granted, that all relies on the blacksmith's reward, which assumedly should at least be enough to acquire one of either. Generous as that jeweller may be, she'd get at most a room and a morning meal with what she's given. And that's if she's even allowed to enter the building.

All she's left to do now is follow this party back into the town, and to that blacksmith, and get her share.

Bringing her focus back on the group, she returned her sight just in time to see the fighter make an exaggerated whoop into the air. As it appears, they are getting ever nearer to the northern ingress, and the closing distance seemed enough to enliven the callow man.

Even the cleric joined in with another - not as exaggerated - whoop of excitement, closely following the fighter's enthusiasm, while both the rangers immediately ragged on him when he landed off-balanced and promptly kissed the dirt. He was a good sport about it, teasing back as he was helped to his feet by the now giggling cleric.

The tiefling quickly stifled her own set of giggling, looking away from the sight. Briefly debating inside her head if she should add her own witty remark as well, and ultimately deciding not to; she doubts any of her jokes would raise a chortle out of them now.

Well, not like it did before; a confused chuckle at best, and a pity laugh at worst. Especially when concerning her favoured type of comedy, as she quickly found out they were not into dark humour all that much.

At least they were nice about it, politely telling her that her morbid joke was highly inappropriate; not helped with her immediate reasoning that that is why it's so funny, and in turn was shot with odd looks. They briefly and kindly told her that they probably just don't get her type of humour, and it may just take a while for them to fully grasp and understand it.

Although the cleric did giggle afterwards, saying to have apparently just gotten the joke.

She could also tell it was out of pity.

The tiefling stared at the back of the cleric's head, not knowing whether to glare daggers or to simply look on unamused. Eventually, she decided to just look past those bright auburn braids, and further survey the upcoming land with listless interest, at the path before her, and up ahead.

They're getting ever closer to the town fringes now; how glad she is for that development. A few more walking and wending, and she'll get her share, and finally she'll be able to ditch them.

A bit mean, and even ungrateful, some might observe and remark on her decision, and while she held no actual gripes with the party, they were simply too goody-goody for her tastes.

Too positive, too optimistic, too… nice. Especially that cleric, a bog-standard young maiden out on a religious duty. A classic charming girl with a need to like - and be liked by - everyone she meets.

She could never figure out if those types were genuine or not.

The rest of the party were no better, in some regard. The fighter, appearing to be the leader of the party, welcoming and kind, tries his best to keep the levity no matter the situation with dumb jokes and humble self-deprecation, though not oblivious when it would be inappropriate.

The rangers, a brother and a sister, polite to a fault, they tend to do most of the talking, and are noticeably more proficient at it than the leader; smarter, too. All the same, they were palpably loyal to him. At least, that's as far as she learned about them through observation, and the times she spoke with them.

Then back to the mentioned cleric, the most goody-goody of them all, so optimistic and hopeful, and so very nice. And the reason why she's even with the group in the first place, as she certainly would not be a part of this party without some sort of suborn reason.

Never met them before till yesterday, actually, having just arrived at the town near afternoon.

It was when she was wending her way in the plaza, taking mental notes of her surroundings - idly watching the people prepare for today's market day - making plans on what she'll be doing while she's there, and deciding whether she'll stay for maybe a night or two.

After stopping near a notice board to briefly inspect it, and gain her bearings, only a few minutes went by of her standing there before she felt a few gentle taps on her shoulder. It was the cleric. Bright smiled and peppy, greeting her with an enthusiastic wave. Far behind her were the rest, talking with each other and occasionally looking over - with a curious look in their eye.

The cleric succinctly explained to have noticed her just standing there, thought she looked lonely, and felt really bad about it; then asked with big cerulean eyes and the sweetest smile if she would like to join them in their little quest that they've just accepted. They were on their way out, actually, but their leader wanted to check out the plaza first; being excited for today's market day.

As established before, freelance warlocks don't tend to get much - both in frequency and payment - in the ways of commissions, at least to those who still wish to walk free in the public, as such she honestly considered the offer. And she is quite low on funds at that moment - presently as well, sort of - and the cleric did offer to share the reward once they complete it.

So, despite the off-putting boldness and overly blithesomeness of the cleric, she agreed with the subtlest hint of hesitation, and also regret. The girl rejoiced - too much, in her opinion - and unabashedly grabbed her arm and dragged her towards the rest; excitedly introducing each one, then herself, then asked for her to do the same.

First giving a subtle side-eye glare to the cleric for impudently pulling her along without permission, she then, not without a tinge of diffidence, proceeded to introduce herself; starting with her name, what she does, and finally - with a little gravitas - who she's serving.

The way their faces sagged was honestly making her reconsider her regret, their reactions were simply hilarious, and she couldn't help but let out a short giggle at that, which actually made them step back a little.

Them, being the rangers, as the fighter stood his ground - though with a concerned look on his face - while the cleric's smile wavered for just the slightest and barest of moments before she quickly reciprocated, and giggled with her, saying how nice it is to finally meet a fellow magic user.

The girl's overly cheery attitude, and the complete disregard of her job and patron, seemingly helped ease the others into also ignoring the red flags, and simply welcomed her into their team.

The fighter being the first to break out of the pseudo-stuper, and without hesitance took her hand and shook it excitedly. Greeting her next were the rangers, they thankfully did not go as far as both the fighter and the cleric, and made no move to breach her personal space; hailing her hello with a wave and a small apology for the other's behaviour.

She got along with them well enough, actually, they all treated her quite nicely. Didn't look down on her, or openly shied away from her. Made sure she knew she wasn't ignored or her opinions disregarded. Past their own shade of red flags, she possessed no real complaints towards them, in all honesty. At least, nothing to earn her full ire.

They were just so kind, and tolerant; all smiles and positivity.

They didn't annoy her by questioning her choice of patron, her methods, her job, or the murderous enthusiasm; weren't so inquisitive as to ask what she does exactly, why she does it, why she chose to be a warlock, why she's out here, why she's the way she is, or who she was before all of this.

They were just so nice.

So kind, so positively goody-goody, that they made sure to not do or say anything that would bother her in the slightest.

Nothing that would put focus on the blatantly obvious.

Nothing to indicate that they would care for such facts.

They were just so kind, and generous, and oh so likeable heroes to tolerate and accept the presence of someone like her.

Oh, how nice of them.

She, on the other hand, was not so nice.

Polite and amiable, sure, but she did not exactly possess the soundest of senses especially concerning decency in relation to the horrific and eldritch.

Her tastes were simply too odd, too much, for the common minded. What knowledge she has, what she does for a living, and the influence she grew up with has seemingly shaped her personality for the utterly unnatural; highly acclimated towards the weird and the otherworldly.

They were not.

They lived normally, had normal upbringing, normal thoughts, simple wants and needs, garden-variety goals for plain heroes; inoffensively unremarkable people unprepared for what her choice of work and patron would entail and bring into their party dynamic.

To a measure of nuisance, they were all so positive by comparison.

So ordinary. So optimistic.

Nothing seemed to ruin their day, so it seemed.

So it seemed…

It was going quite well.

Then, she just had to be herself. Expressed herself. Revealed her thoughts, her interests, her desires. Conveyed what she'd hoped to do to anyone standing in their way; hoping for someone to stand in their way.

While she has absolutely no qualms being herself, not afraid to hide who she is, or what she does, all the same she was deftly aware of the effects her macabre delights would bring. An advocate for chaos she may be, she does know and understand when to defer for a proper decorum.

Although, with slight disappointment, what distasteful discussions of dark topics or converse concerning strange and the surreal, morbid humour or ghastly murder, and themes of profoundly mindboggling mysteries was essentially ignored. Disregarded, politely, if that was even possible.

Any subject matter with a tone of negativity was improper; they were rather steadfast, almost impressively so, and held their tongue, and they were ever-polite as to not outright brush it aside whenever she brings one up. Near-cleverly steering conversations away from such topics, or trying to reason out the origin for her interest in preternatural palavers - behind her back.

Still they stayed ever friendly, overtly even, as they seemingly saw - or perhaps sought - the good in her, and would not be so callous as to call her out on any obviously malicious desires and deeds. They simply accepted it as a part of her personality. Though, a bit odd that they would be so averse to bring it up.

Now with all that being said, there was that one time, where she did cause a rather uncharacteristic outburst of shock - albeit, quickly simmered.

It was back in that village, night looming in, after a series of investigations, when they finally found out who murdered that craftsman-in-training, and right at the culmination of their violent confrontation.

It was then where she personally brutalised that thuggish drunkard with a dagger, her deadly reaction right after he lunged at her in a futile attempt to maim her. He was already injured badly by her blasts, his skin was still boiling and even dripping onto the dirt and on her dress; thus, a simple gutting, slicing, tearing, was enough to vanquish the light in his eyes.

The sight seemed to be too much for the sister ranger, as that's also when she made her highly inappropriate joke towards the recently deceased and disembowelled. Well, it's not much of a joke, more akin to a comedic taunt.

Distressed, the sister could only stare in disbelief, and tell her in a jittery voice how that's not nice of her to say; then proceeded to detail to her the utter disarray that whole incident has wrought, in a way that asks for sympathy, and to be respectful. Something she - admittedly obliviously - shot down by reasoning that that is exactly why it is so funny.

The sister's face was priceless.

The brother instantly hugged and took his sister away, both to comfort and possibly stop any more words to be exchanged; perhaps the kind that would strain their already fickle, and fleeting, relationship with her. Well, it was all temporary, anyway.

Leaving the fighter and the cleric to kindly explain the troubles away, and not at all put any blame on her. It was simply a lapse in composure, and a joke that didn't quite land.

No hard feelings.

No drama.

No problems at all.

They stayed the night there, obviously slept in separate rooms - and almost a separate building for her - and were even given a fair discount for taking care of that seldom-sobered braggart.

From what information they've gathered, the man was a fiend; only escaping the manacles by quick wit, and an intimidating presence to silence the few people who spoke against him, and even at most would only spend a night or two in a cell.

Their group was actually praised for taking them down a notch. Well, at first they were about to be taken in for questioning, but fortunately the fighter - in a moment of social confidence - quickly explained the situation to the guards right then and there, and saved them the hassle of dealing with the processes of the law.

Afterwards, the few people who witnessed their exploits went ahead and thanked them for a job well done. Some even paid off a drink here and there, which was certainly welcomed, especially by the sister ranger.

Although, peculiarly, while that braggart and his cohorts were notorious for their callous antagonisings, it does seem to bewilder some of the folks who were familiar with their misdeeds, that those brutes would leap so easily for murder. Beatings, sure, but this was a rather drastic step up for them, noted even by the guards. But, the braggart's dead, so it doesn't matter all that much.

Come early morning, they were already up and ready to return to the town. Exchanging shallow greetings in the tavern's hallway, they went to gather themselves and their bearings near the village well.

They spent a good moment idling near that well, enough to rouse themselves, and yawn away any lingering drowsiness; the fighter opted to do minor stretches, and a brief placid jog around the well.

With the chill air clasped around their necks, feeling fit and awake to start the journey, they trudged through the thoroughfare heading towards the valley.

They were not entirely heroes, nor did something really heroic by usual standards, still their deeds were noticed by the scant few who paid attention, and some even bothered to give them a personal word of farewell; however meagre, laudation lacking in thrill, each member received vocal tribute. All except her, but that's not exactly unexpected.

The trek back was… awkward, to say the least. The sister was noticeably keeping a distance away from her, and was considerably closer to the brother than the day before. Gave only a few formalities, apologised for the outburst, and never interacted with her directly since then.

The others were no better. They still tried, but it seems their conversations died down much sooner than how they were yesterday; not really a high bar to cross, in honesty. And try as they might, she could tell that most of their politeness was in some measure forced.

By now, she'd give them that doubt.

The cleric was seemingly the exception, and kept on interacting with her long after the rest had seemingly given up on it. Though, it has to be said that they haven't stopped entirely; it has just been a capricious cycle of non-committal chatter ever since.

The young maiden still tried to include the tiefling back into their conversations. She held on the longest, actually, but over time the girl started to drift away as well. Especially when the effort put forth proved fruitless; at least from their side.

The tiefling sighed for the third time this day.

While she herself tried to continue their farce of a friendly conversation, she was also more than content letting them return to their safe space, back with each other, talking amongst themselves, laughing and giggling amongst themselves.

So, she slowed her steps. Little by little, till she was just behind them. A few paces back, enough to catch up to them without much effort if she wanted- was required to rejoin that cluster.

It was rather telling that they never bothered to mention her lack of presence in the pack since then. Didn't question, or perhaps even notice, that she's falling behind.

Trailing after them, like some urchin pestering for food.

Heralded by the sightings of stables, mills, granaries, and lowly inns, and an ever-expanding prospect of a plethora of peasants busy with their day, a gentle tide of residency noise washed over them, prying her away from her thoughts as it slowly intensified with each step taken.

At last, the party has arrived at the northern ingress of the seaside town.

Bakeries, breweries, tailors and cobblers, and plain buildings of dwelling, storage, and stores lined either side of the earthen street. None as high-grade as the ones she saw in the town centre, though the services offered here seemed more than enough for the surrounding denizens, and proved to be a more convenient location.

Carpenters standing or sitting atop scaffolding, or on rooftops; few focused on their work, as others opted to still converse with each other or to people below, and some simply hummed a tune to occupy and soften a long day of hard work. Their hammers rhythmically ringing in the air, piercing through the ever-present milieu of mirth and laughter.

Myriad of folks intermingling, gossipping, crossing walkways with all sorts of reasons; to places of labourers and services, taverns, and neighbours. Providing the near-overwhelming ambience of bustle and movement.

Children scampering, sifting themselves through the crowd, down alleyways, or into homes; engaged in whatever antics they've come up at the time.

They were all having such a good time.

Such a good day, especially on market day.

A shame she had to arrive.

How raucous and joyous these people were, yet almost immediately there was a considerable simmer of energy the moment she appeared.

They did not quiet down, nor put a halt in their doings, but they were noticeably agitated the moment they realised her presence.

She didn't even have to look.

She could practically feel the mood shift.

Feel those ever-shifting eyes centre on her, and briskly look away, as if afraid to be condemned if she were to meet their sight.

The children looked so happy, playing with careless wonder.

Then with a glance… smiles drop, and playtime's over.

They shied away, tried not to stare, and kept their distance. They did not cower, unlike those in the village, but they certainly didn't look glad to see her.

The youth in this region apparently lack spines, the guts, that naive bravery that blights any young aspiring hero. Far from some of the children she's encountered in her past.

The adults fared no better.

She was a ship in the water, a flaming arrow through the dark, a shockwave dispersing the air; she was a tiefling parting the crowd.

None recoiled, made a noise, or spat in her direction. Just a seamless swerving path away from her, as smooth and subtle as they could make; not a single one wanting to incite her ire.

To the benefit of the party, they'll be at the blacksmith's in no time. One of the few things she's grown to appreciate.

Though, credit where credit is due, this town is significantly better than the ones she has been in the past.

These folks don't want any trouble. They'd keep to their side, and they only hope she keeps to hers. She's experienced this before, actually, though rarely; she basically knew how this particular town would treat her the moment she arrived the day before.

She in fact would not bother them, if they don't bother her.

As much as she likes a bit of pandemonium, she's not much of a rampaging monster as the world sees her.

Even if she did - go on a rampage - her arcana would last her only so little to cause mitigated chaos. She would not fare well against an entire town's worth of guardsmen and able-bodied defenders, no matter what eldritch magic she employs, especially with what she's currently capable of.

A town; by her, alone, with her current knowledge and power… she might as well kneel down, bare her neck, and ask to be executed.

A small village… That she could take, especially at night when everyone is asleep. Asleep, and unprepared for a spurned child to come back and set fire to the buildings.

No. She will not be causing this town any trouble. She knows better. She is not a warmonger. Again, she may be an advocate of chaos, but not an unwarranted one - as contradictory as that is - nor one that will lead to her demise or capture.

Make no mistake, she's more than a little bit too happy and ready to murder someone in cold-blood, but she's not so kill-eager as to be mindless with it. She chooses when, and who, and if it is a reasonable and viable action to be made.

Not to mention, she does enjoy the luxuries a civilisation offers, when she's allowed, and trying to massacre every town, village, et cetera she arrives in would more than likely put a stop to that, especially if her infamy reaches far and wide.

She has spent enough time living in poverty, wearing rags, and eating hapless poultry; she will not be giving up her privilege so easily just for some petty killings. Not unless she knows she can get away with it, or if it was condoned.

On that note, neither would she butcher or even harm someone just for annoying her, no matter how irritated she is - within reason… her twisted reason. She's not some immature knave unable to control their urges, nor does she have an unappeasable impulse to murder or maim anyone in sight.

She's not stupid.

She'll bide her time, and strike when the opportunity presents itself.

By all means, in spite of her concerning knack and lust for the decidedly insane acts and thoughts, she is very much sane if not aptly reasonable.

Not to mention, such activities are not exactly good publicity. Again, she doesn't really care what people think of her, but it's not all that beneficial to earn a bounty for her head, or at least be locked away.

Besides, if all of her patron's planning comes to fruition, she'll have all the best opportunities for any of her desires. If she survives till then, that is, and being hunted or put in a cell is no good way to last to that fateful day.

It is seemingly what sets her apart to all the other freelance warlocks she'd heard of.

She knows better… was taught better.

The common freelance warlock would nonchalantly accept practically any commission that any normal magic user would question or outright refuse, with what concern to be had is if the consequences would reach them, if they even bothered to think about it in the first place. Those rubes actively don't care what they're known for nor the effects of what they are doing, and thus in time would gain infamy, and subsequently be tracked down and exterminated.

She, on the other hand, would often pose queries if the quest offered seems in any way more under the surface than what is presented. And while she does accept dubious requests as well, it is done with caution and forethought; meticulous scheming is vital when she takes on these missions almost always single-handedly.

Although, she herself may not always think about the consequences as well, but at least she's aware that they exist, and would try to mitigate her chances of being at the tail end of one. If she could help it, that is.

Her presence, minimal, and what information that would be known of her is either harmlessly neutral or slightly on the positive side. If she could help it, that is.

She may not be as enthusiastic, or really at all, about committing any heroic deeds, but she understands the benefits of doing them, and being on the people's good eye. If she could help it, that is.

Admittedly, she has even done something that could be considered good or heroic in the past; albeit reluctantly.

Even if it's something as simple as helping a little girl look for her stuffed toy.

Even if she was paid in shiny pebbles.

The tiefling chuckled.

Silly girl.

Too young to have anything of monetary value.

Too young, naive, and ignorant to notice the frightened looks smeared upon the onlookers' faces.

Silly orphan girl.

No parents to pay for her services.

No parents to worry about who the child keeps company.

Silly little girl.

No amount of anything could rival the value of that toy.

No amount of anything to express the full gratitude for finding that toy.

Silly girl.

How can that smile hold more value than any gold she's ever acquired.

How can such a silly little orphan girl keep a smile… when she could not.

She sighed once more.

Silly girl… silly orphan girl… silly little orphan girl… reminiscing at a time when she should be focusing; at the place around her, on the path, and at the group she's with.

They're nearing the town centre.

She could see it through the thoroughfare, especially that waterless fountain; barren as it were yesterday.

The party suddenly turned, swerving to their left, their meaningless conversations simmering down.

Took a right - passing through an alley - another right, another left; more walking followed.

One last left turn.

A sign hung limply at the side of a building, a wooden plate connected with chains to a protruding length of pole; stylised anvil and deer horns carved on its face, highlighted with metal linings.

The blacksmith.

Her feet wavered for only a moment; should she stay outside or enter with them?

Oblivious to her uncertainty, they made their choice, entering within the time she posed the thought.

A quick gaze around her, and the people's eyes were quicker to look away.

She joined them. With haste, the door was half-closed before her palm could graze its iron handle.

The sudden halt of the door made noise, the attention pulled towards her. Immediately, she could feel the mood inside shift.

The blacksmith's eyes, much like those outside, flitted to her, only for a second, before he returned to the others.

His body language was instantly tense. His hands, once laying casually on the counter, now crossed over; slouched spine became straighter; his stance steady with feet firm on the floor.

With the subtlest shake in his voice, he politely asked her to wait for a moment, perhaps look around, browse his wares, while he dealt with the party first. The fighter then summarily noted that she was actually with them, causing the blacksmith to pause, and nod; steering the topic to the matter at hand rather swiftly.

They proceeded to talk to each other, concisely informing the blacksmith what happened to his business associate, omitting some of the details - the barrel - and telling him who did it, and that they were already dealt with.

A moment of silence stilled the air.

Arms loosened, hands gliding down to the counter; the blacksmith stared pensively downwards.

A second more, and the cleric stepped forward, expressing for the rest of the party their condolences.

The blacksmith cuts them off abruptly, waving it away nonchalantly, lacking any hint of solemnity, yet the hidden tone in his voice betrays his indifference; excused that they weren't that close anyway - bringing up a pouch jingling with coins - and promptly started rounding off the amount promised.

He counted them all, clear-voiced, one by one in front of their eyes, out in the open atop the counter; the pouch decidedly, visibly, unmistakably empty by the time he finished.

Remarking that he thought there were only four of them.

Hence… came the issue.

The reward is uneven.

What he had for them, what was promised, was enough for four, at least.

It would've been perfectly equal, if not a few stray coppers that they would surely not be opposed to sharing or giving.

Her inclusion spoiled that.

Four splits of acceptable equivalence, and a fifth of decidedly lopsided amount.

No matter how it was divided, one was always left with the shortest stick, or split in meagre fives.

The blacksmith expressed sympathy, an apology, genuinely so, but it is what's promised, and he could not alter it lest he leaves another with less than what they were promised.

They all stared at the allotted piles.

As it appears, they've all forgotten what the set price was when they first accepted the quest.

Simply slipped out of their minds.

Too excited for today's market day; trying to befriend a tiefling; distressed by a grisly murder; comforting a sibling.

Who could blame them for not once mentioning the actual price of the reward?

Never crossed their thoughts.

Who would blame them?

Although, fair is fair, she'd assume a sliver of the blame for not bringing it up herself.

Only a sliver.

The sister ranger drifted forwards, offhandedly picking up the pouch, and quietly inspected its insides; the blacksmith neither affronted nor cared if they thought him lying, paid them no mind.

He had no motive to dupe or swindle. The evidence speaks for itself. What other coinage he possessed was reserved for budget, and to other businesses he manages. All understandable reasons.

She was still behind them, near the door, and despite seeing only the back of their heads, she had no need to strain herself, deducing the look of anxious daze on their faces.

The air was tense, more so now; lavishly rife with contrition.

No one moved.

Stood still for seconds of an eternity.

For two seconds too long.

She sighed, rolling her eyes.

Sauntering forwards, easily moving past the others in their state of stupor; she already knows how this plays out.

To the silence of the others, especially the cleric, her hand reached for the lowest share, taking the pitiful pile without hesitation, and immediately pocketing it.

Looks like she won't be buying anything new any time soon.

She turned, heading for the exit.

The cleric swiftly protested, actually protested, ever so kindly - almost infuriatingly so - trying to persuade her to relent and have the bigger share instead.

Pestering her, smiling ever brightly, politely blocking her way.

A look is all she gave back.

She was over it.

She was done.

She got her share.

She was out the doorway before the cleric could squeak another word in; door slamming shut with a resounding thud.

She waited outside with a visible glower; jaw clenched, lips pursed, brows furrowed.

The crowd, subtle as they could possibly make it, hurried past her with unmistakable hidden panic.

Arms crossed tightly.

Glaring at no one.

Faintly growling.

Pity.

Only out of pity.

Oh, isn't that nice?

They felt so bad seeing her all by herself.

So bad that they felt the need to ask her to join them.

Out of pity.

How nice of them to pity her.

How nice of them to express their sympathy.

She growled.

Oh, they just happened to notice her, did they?

Yeah, sure, singled her out of the crowd.

What great eyesight, they must've been gluttons for carrots.

Of course they would notice her, how could anyone not?

Everyone in this town surely has, drifting eyes gazing at her form up and down; hard to miss a red skinned tiefling especially when she's the only one in the bloody place.

Oh, the group definitely saw her, but curiously they then refused to see her.

Forced themselves not to. Tried, at least.

They were careful - she'd give them that - but, unfortunately, she could practically feel each time any of their sights grazed her skin, her horns, or her tail.

Of course, in order to be nice, they simply ignored them.

How astonishingly kind of them to disregard her most prominent features.

She growled, louder this time.

What's taking them so long?

Still trying to negotiate?

Still trying to split it more evenly?

Idiots.

Are they trying to infuriate her more?

Are they trying to wait out the storm?

Cowards.

Were they hoping for her to make the first move?

How optimistic of them.

How silly of them to think she would give them that mercy.

Where's all that heroic bravery?

She growled, foot tapping.

Coming up with an apology are they?

Coming up with a way to break the news?

Just say their formal farewells. Don't bother coating it.

They'd wish she could stay, but won't bother stopping her if she chooses not to.

Oh, what sad goodbyes they'd exchange; hope they'd meet again some day, she's looking forward to it, for sure!

Sparing a glance at the door, seeing no movement, still.

Her patience is running thin.

Were they waiting for her to get bored, get the hint, and leave of her own accord?

She could laugh at such naive optimism.

They wanted her to join.

They asked her first.

What were they expecting from a tiefling freelance warlock serving a great old one?

Did they think she was yet another tiefling merely misunderstood? Did her choice of clothing not refute that so easily?

Was she lacking in effort when she put her whole ensemble together?

One look is all it takes! She made sure of that.

No margin for confusion.

Her full intentions are clearly known with just a glance.

Put on display for the world to see what she really is, what she's known for, what the world knew her as before she herself even knew.

They were just so nice that they just can't leave a poor woman alone by herself.

Alone, and open to the opinion and stares of the populace.

Oh, they were just too nice. So nice to include her in their quest, disregarding what other people would think, and to go so far as to be willing to split the reward. With her, of all people.

How nice of them… not to leave a lonesome tiefling all by herself.

How nice of them to pity her.

Nice of them to never bother her afterwards; never questioned her, not for once judged her.

They all just held their tongue, and ignored her eccentricities.

Ignored her job.

Ignored her patron.

Ignored her methods.

Ignored her powers.

Ignored her looks.

Ignored her horns.

Ignored her tail.

Ignored her.

Ignored what she is… And played nice.

This is a good thing.

It's supposed to be a good thing.

If only it wasn't forced to be a good thing.

The tiefling… sighed.

Again.

For the sixth time now.

Have they even noticed the past five?

No, of course not; ignored.

She blew a strand of hair away from her face.

What did she expect from a bunch of humans? Some do-gooders.

Some heroes.

Fun fact, she had once met some heroes.

Yes. Indeed, she has.

A long, long time ago.

They were a bunch of human do-gooders as well.

Isn't that nice?

A bunch of human do-gooders playing heroes.

Play is the word here, for they were doing just that.

Just a small group of children, human do-gooder children playing heroes. And so was she, at the time - being a child, that is.

She wasn't really much of a hero…

She could've been.

Would've been…

Wanted to be… but apparently, she was simply not allowed.

There was just something about her that made it impossible for her to be the hero of the story.

As those kids kindly explained to her, she was simply not allowed, not supposed to, downright impossible to be the good guy.

It was, for some damned reason, universally decided that she instead was the bad guy.

The villain.

The oh-so evil monster that the goody-goody heroes are destined to defeat, lord over, mocked, scorned, and hated.

The demon fated to be killed and destroyed for the sake of goodness of the whole wide world.

To be kicked, stoned, spat at, and chased out to the forest with slings, and wooden swords.

To be so preoccupied with the threat of undeserved beatings, to be so scared, so frightened, so damned confused, to idiotically trip on a blatantly visible jutted out tree root.

To roll and tumble down the bushy incline, to be cut and scraped by twigs and pebbles, to hit the bottom of a serene forest floor with a pitiful and pathetic thud.

To lay there limply, in aching pain and muted agony, silently letting the blood mix with her pooling tears, staring - peering through the haze - up into the canopy-covered sunset sky.

The sweet chirping of birds, and the gentle rustle of swaying branches, offset by the fading sound of giggling kids… and her stifled cries.

Some human kids.

Do-gooder kids playing heroes.

Goody-goody heroes bravely defending their stupid village from the oh-so menacing and threatening little girl.

A silly little girl, so sheltered that she thought visiting their stupid village would be a wonderful time.

So naive to think that he barred her for equally stupid reasons.

There were few rules he put. Take heed of them, that's all she needed to do. Never leave the cave if he's not around, and never ever go in that village; do not let herself be seen.

If she'd just listened to him, if only she'd just listened, if she'd just stayed inside on that day…

If she just… stayed inside… would she still be inside that cave to this day?

Would it be better to have just stayed inside, and never face what she had experienced?

Was it worth it? Was the pain…

Was it mercy to spare her from the truth?

Was it kindness to shelter her from the world?

No matter. She made her choice.

What's done is done.

She ignored his rules.

Broke them.

Paid the price.

…

The door opened.

Finally!

About bloody time.

What will be their excuse, their stupid, idiotic reason for making her wait outside for so long?

She absolutely made no attempt to hide her mood.

They stopped.

They stared at her.

Why were they staring at her?

Oh, scared are they?

Good.

First step to forgiveness achieved.

Oh…

Her mood vanished.

Right… they thought she would've left by now.

The sister gasped immediately; mouth clamped shut with a hurried hand, too late to stop voicing out their thoughts. Staring at her, head shaking in remorse, the other hand hovering outstretched with regret.

The cleric took a step forward, beginning to apologise.

The tiefling walked.

…

How was she supposed to know everyone outside was horrible to her kind?

He never told her anything about the outside, only that it was filled with stupid people, as stupid as they are ugly, and that not a single one was as smart as him.

She grew up with him long enough to know not to take everything he says all too seriously. So why would she take that description as truth?

He's just an embittered old hermit.

Of course he would scorn them in his usual petty attitude. Ever the grumbling grump that he is. Ever the meanie; always flicking her nose after pointing at a smudge on her dress. And she always fell for it, too.

She always fell for his dumb jokes. And he'd always laugh heartily whenever she does; slapping his knee, and pointing at her pouting face.

He was the one that taught her all about magic. Nearly all the types, focusing heavily on theurgy.

He had all kinds of books, trinkets, and paraphernalia concerning the arcane in that cave; some he found, or stole, or simply bought.

Taught her how to be a warlock. Taught her how to read. Taught her anything there is to know.

Anything she had to know to survive as a freelance warlock… alone… outside.

She was just a kid.

Still learning. Young. Naive. Stupid as any other at her age. Although, she may have been a bit more intelligent than the peasant youth.

Just a kid, who has lived her entire childhood in a cave. A nice, may not be the kindest, but polite, amiable, playful, a little mischievous, and concerningly macabre kid. But a kid, nonetheless.

Feeling a bit lonely not being around other children to play with, not being with anyone at all other than that grumpy old nerd.

Forbidden from ever leaving that cave, at least not too far from the entrance, for no given reasons at all, other than he told her so, and that she should listen to him because he's older therefore wiser.

He was a freelance warlock.

The villagers apparently knew him, or of him. Knew he lived alone at the nearby cave atop a small outcrop in the forest. Often he'd be commissioned to do things for them, mostly mundane things, sometimes dealing with some rowdy beast or monster in the woods.

Sometimes he'd leave and come back in an hour, sometimes at night, or at dawn. He'd always return with goods, such as food, or trinkets, or ingredients for their arcane studies. Not once has he come back without one. The few times he forgot, he'd leave immediately after, and be back a few minutes later. Grumbling and muttering, when he does.

He tries his utmost best acquiring books, especially the academic kind; sometimes literary. But they're only for him, he'd say. Albeit the worst she got for reading them was a tepid reprimand; he never made any motion to actually stop her.

Never really cared what she does in her free time.

He wasn't exactly the most responsible adult, in retrospect. After studies, after her chores, he'd often just leave her to do whatever she wants, even practise spellcasting that no child should have access to. As long as it's in the cave, and she cleans up any mess she makes, and tries not to die in the process.

At most he'll just make a snarky remark whenever he walks in on her doing something. Often munching on a snack, giving her false instructions on how to do the spell better, then laughing at her pouting face after she realises it was just a joke.

How odd all that must've been for him.

After years living in a cave, all alone, to suddenly come back to someone to return to, someone to talk to, play jokes on… to someone who depended on him.

How odd must it be for him to adopt a foundling, much less raise one.

He could've just left her there. Ignored her cries. Go back to sleep. Wait for some beast to come, and…

Still, he made his choice. Brought her inside. Soothed her cries.

How odd it was for someone like him, an old embittered hermit warlock, to know how to care for an infant.

Still, he kept her in that cave.

For her first few years, that cave was her home.

A few years later, she was starting to resent it.

Feeling a little rebellious as she grew a bit older.

Thinking it unfair that he could go outside whenever he wants while she had to stay inside, go over her studies, and clean her room - or what passes for a room in a cave.

Started being more snippy with him.

Snapping back at his sarcasm.

Until one fateful day, outright arguing with him; just why was she not allowed to leave?

They clashed, shouted at each other… truly shouted; it left her voice hoarse by the end of it.

She has never shouted that loud before. Never felt that much emotion. That much rage.

Back and forth, they screamed at each other; demanding an actual reason for his rules, and him constantly making excuses, deflecting it away, disregarded and ignored them.

Then… it reached a boiling point, and she threw a book at him.

Hit his head.

He was an old man, he almost stumbled over, almost collapsed; he had to steady himself against the cave's walls.

That broke her fury.

She has never seen his eyes brimming with so much disappointment.

How dare she?

She was out of line.

He raised her, all by himself, since infancy, and that was how she repaid him?

What an ungrateful child.

He is the older one in their relationship, he is her elder, he is wiser to the world around, how dare she think she knows what is best for her.

She absolutely does not.

She was just a stupid little kid. How would she know what's best for her?

He knows what's good for her.

If she is told what to do, she should do it.

If he tells her never to leave that cave, she will never leave that cave.

Because he is her elder, and children should heed their elder.

Because he knows better.

He knows what's good for her.

So… she was grounded.

Revoked much of her privileges. Threw most of her books outside into the forest. No more reading any literature. Nothing to give her any more stupid ideas of going out… of having friends.

That was the same day he was commissioned to deal with trouble at a nearby settlement.

Supposed to be gone a few minutes ago; late due to scolding an impudent child.

He warned her that if he had any inkling that she made an attempt to go outside once he came back, for the first time there would be punishment.

Then he left.

Left her almost as embittered as he was.

Eyes damp with droplets, seething with simmering rage at the unfairness, at the sheer mistreatment of her freedom.

The very moment he left that cave, the very second she knew he was truly fully gone, she took her chances, and immediately went outside.

He was right. There would be punishment.

It just didn't come from him.

A discovery he made returning that very night.

Staring, wide-eyed, at the blood dripping from her forehead.

Standing before her, right at the entrance of the cave, was that old grump.

Voice dripping with alarm.

…

The cleric grabbed her wrist.

She refused to face the girl.

The cleric apologised profusely.

Over and over and over again.

Apologising for the ranger, apologising for anything else that may have upsetted her that they never realised.

Forcing their share of the blacksmith's reward in her hands.

She struggled against the grip.

The cleric truly felt ashamed of their behaviour.

Truly felt saddened by her lonesomeness, truly just wanted her to have friends.

For her to feel what it's like to be with people that didn't care who or what she is.

Truly felt regret for not putting enough effort.

She wrenched her hand free; dropping the coins in the process.

She is done.

She is leaving.

Leaving this town.

The girl was truly sorry… for everything.

She walked.

Never looking back.

It's better being alone.

…

The pact was already made, she deserves to test her end of the deal.

Who would defend them?

Who would justify their utter contempt towards a stupid and silly little girl?

Who spits at a child?

Who would hurt a child?

What sane person would kick a little girl just for saying hello?

They're only like that towards her kind?

They don't know any better?

They are good people?

Oh, is that so!?

Well!

Glad to know… But unfortunately for them, she apparently was not!

No~! She's the villain of the story, she's the bad guy, she's the cruel, heartless devilspawn, here to only wreak havoc and death wherever she goes!

She is just a demon, after all. Just a tiefling. And all demons and tieflings know how to do is murder, murder, murder!

She can't just leave them be.

She can't just forget, she can't just act like none of it happened, she can't just leave them as they are.

She can't leave.

She can't do anything good.

She's not supposed to be good.

She can't be the hero, she's apparently incapable of doing anything heroic, or nice, or kind.

She is the villain.

She is evil manifest.

She is devil incarnate.

She will plunge the world into madness, terror, and death because that's just what she's supposed to do.

What the world says she's supposed to be.

So what were they complaining about?

What were they screaming about?

She's only proving them right!

She's only being what she was supposed to be!

What's the matter then!? What's wrong with her then!?

She's not good, she's evil! They've established that!

She's not a hero, she's the villain! They've established that!

She cannot be a hero, she's just utterly incapable of doing anything heroic! They established that!

She's not a hero. She can't be a hero. Thus… incapable of doing anything good.

Showing them mercy… is good.

In the end, he just had to be in her way.

…

She stopped.

She was a rock in the river. A tiefling stood in the middle of the street. The main street. The town centre behind her. The exit straight ahead.

She stared. Stared listlessly forward.

The faces of the crowd all blurring together, forming into an ever-trailing haze moving past her.

So many faces. So many people. So many flickering eyes.

Looking past the horde, past the shapeless heads, far behind them… at the valley path.

How exhausting. Not to mention, not really where she would like to head to.

Taking a step back, she swivelled around and faced the plaza, seeing that fountain; barren as it were yesterday, as it were just a few minutes ago… or so she thought.

Something stood on its edge. Or rather, someone. Someone quite tall.

Well, whoever that was is of no significance. Though, if curiousity strikes, she'll be getting a closer look passing through.

The valley path was far too bothersome to take, anyway. She'll just leave the same way she arrived; from the high rolling hills.

Then she walked.

She had no need to wait, or push through, she was a gust in the fog; she simply strode forth.

Back straight, arms crossed, eyes focused straight ahead.

Not once paying anyone a shred of her attention. In turn, she was ignored, to the best of their ability.

Safe to say, times have changed.

She has changed. Matured. Wiser, smarter… calmer. Obviously, she has not changed her ways. She's just a little more restrained. In control. More relaxed.

She's still that playful, mischievous, and concerningly macabre kid. May not be the kindest, but polite, amiable, and is capable of doing something nice. Rarely. Something good, reluctantly. Something that could be considered heroic, very reluctantly. But… capable.

The world says she's this, thinks she's that, believing she's whatever… and she agrees. But she also knows - now, at least - that she's not bound to just being what the world decided her to be.

She's doing what she's doing because she wants to do it. Not because she was expected to do so.

Sure, she may have been more or less funnelled into it, but at least she's enjoying it.

This is just her life now. She has no qualms with how it turned out.

If she wanted to, she could stop, ditch her patron, her powers, and try doing something else… but that would be so boring!

Freelancing as a warlock is awesome!

In a very odd sort of way, she had no one to thank for that but that stupid village.

Still hated it to no end, and wished to have razed it to the ground, wipe it off the face of the world, and slaughtered every single vile soul that dared to call that disgusting place a home… but a sliver of appreciation is felt. Only a sliver.

Although, on that note; admittedly, the image of an enraged demon child did most of her work for her. Especially at night, where nearly everyone was fast asleep. A blood curdling scream of hatred would immediately set anyone in a panic… also aided by the fires.

Oh, they were so scared, so hysterically frightened, scrambling against each other, stepping over - or on - the fallen, and some even fainting at the sheer sight of her. Those were easy pickings.

Blasting buildings, attacking anyone in range, setting fires anywhere she could set it; though hampered by the rain that appeared over the village.

Murdering as many of those wastrels as she could.

How giddy she felt behind all the fury with every death.

How exhilarating to be the terror that they saw her as.

Although, despite the sheer panic and horror she was showered with, a scant few of the villagers actually managed to summon their bravery, arming themselves to face her, to defend their village from the demon child.

They didn't really have any weapons - even a part of her wondered why - but they made do with what farm tools they had. And in spite of seemingly having no training, they valiantly sought to defy her rampage.

Such brave heroes.

Oh, what songs they'd sing, what tales were told of their heroic sacrifice… trying to butcher a little girl. Some heroes they were. Not only were they trying to kill a child, they proceeded to lose to that child, and died! Pathetically, she might add.

She giggled, causing the crowd around her to skip a step, perhaps even skip a beat; a wisp of fear crossing their faces. She continued to giggle.

Still, she could only do so much. Some were lucky enough to escape. Those heroes managed to keep her preoccupied while the rest ran to safety, perhaps to a nearby settlement. They who got away; always a source of annoyance to think back on.

Not to mention, her eldritch magic didn't really do a great deal of damage to the buildings, and at most just ignited flammable things.

Which is still good.

Good for her, definitely not for them.

There were those who were trapped by the flames, trapped in their rooms, or were simply too deep a sleeper to wake up; an astonishing feat, now that she looks back on it. Few unfortunate idiots burned to death, while others inhaled too much smoke and just dropped coughing on the ground. Still, she blasted them all regardless.

Confirming the kill, is what she would like to say was the reason. In actuality, at that time, in her state of mind, she was just really eager to blast anyone. Didn't really have a plan in the first place. Striking at night wasn't even on her mind, it was just the time she got to the village.

She just walked in and… started. Simple as that.

If anything, she's surprised that she got out of that alive, and in one piece.

Probably would have died to those few who tried to combat her. They must either suck real bad or be dealing with some disadvantage because their attempts were pathetic. Hilariously so, in retrospect.

The rain certainly did not help them, with slippery muddy shoes, and fairly obscured vision. Kept on missing their strikes, or tumbling over; once striking an ally.

Dispatching them was stupidly easy. The only trouble she had was actually hitting her shots.

She had no difficulty taking care of those wastrels, or anyone else in that small village for that matter.

All except one that proved themselves more than capable; by comparison.

Probably could've stopped her, if they were going for the kill… and if they just stopped trying to dissuade her.

It was when she was about to strike that one kid, the same one; how her blood boiled as she laid eyes upon him, the leader of that little pack that drove her out to the forest.

Then, She came along. Tackled that disgusting waste of life out of the way just before she could hit him.

Fury coursed through her veins the moment her prey was saved, screeching madly at the interloper.

For a moment, their eyes settled on each other.

Hate, rage - so much rage… and sorrow; met concern, determination, and… familiarity.

It was made clear that the woman would not back down so easily, and was not frightened by her magic in the slightest, nor did the woman look upon with her that contemptuous sight she saw so many in the others.

She was not from the village, that she could tell. Wearing travelling gear, and looked to have trekked for quite some time.

How kind. A stranger saving some kid they don't even know.

How brave. Facing another kid roiling with rage, and crackling with eldritch might.

This one was far different. Didn't outright oppose her, didn't outright stop her, instead tried to persuade her to stop; giving her the decision, the option to relent. Trying their damn best for her to see reason, that they know how it feels, how much it burns inside of her, how strong the urge… but she has to let it go. It will do her no good.

Unfortunately for the woman, she wasn't exactly in the right state of mind; immediately attacking mid-sentence, and hitting… neither the woman or that little fiend. To be fair, she was mainly targeting that wastrel, who was pushed away by the woman who then promptly ran away.

She was not letting that breathing mistake get away.

Unfortunately, for her this time, this woman was a lot more competent, and robust, than the others. She went to chase after that atrocity of birth, but the woman was rather quick to block her way, and then charged at her; surprisingly fast for a woman of that stature, nothing that big should move so swiftly

It was a brief battle.

A blast that hit the air, a tackle, a remarkable amount of seconds spent struggling against the much bigger woman; trying not to hurt her, most likely, still trying to resolve it peacefully.

Then, in the scuffle, her hand managed to settle on the woman's waist, and eldritch magic struck.

That proved effective in stopping the woman. Instantly relenting the assault. Rolling off of her in quiet agony.

Softly lit by the scattered flames, crackling and hissing in the rain. Village vacant. Not one else was there except her, and this woman.

The strain was getting to her at that point, struggling to even sit up; exhausted, sore, and her emotions also starting to simmer.

Still, the woman was alive. In tremendous pain, no doubt, clutching their side, breathing heavily through clenched teeth. Severely weakened by her blast.

She held a palm out to her, aiming at the woman's head.

Then she heard a voice; faint, feeble, quivering with grief.

She hesitated… She heard a plea for forgiveness.

Her fury fully vanished.

The woman started to apologise.

Not to her, not even acknowledging her. Staring up at the dispersing clouds.

Apologising to someone. Tears mixed with the fading rain. Started to hum a tune; a slow shaky melody.

She watched the woman.

Watched as their eyes slowly fell close.

Listened as the half-orc began to sing a song, voice weak, and growing weaker.

…

Market day.

So many stalls were set up. So many wares put on display.

Trinkets, furniture, baskets, pots, tools, clothing, linen, scrolls, books - she made note of that, even weapons and potions, and of course food; freshly harvested.

It was a hub of activity. A rush of bodies, a maelstrom of sound, of hawkers yelling about their goods, and of people raucous and joyous.

So much noise, so many people, and surprisingly little changed when she arrived. Only the few near her paid her any attention. No shift in tone, or mood for everyone else. They cared more about their doings, rather than her.

Cared more about what they'll be spending their coins on.

Speaking of, she will be leaving this place. Off to yet another long journey to yet another town. Just another day in the life of a tiefling freelance warlock, can't keep a presence too long in one place, lest any unrelated misfortune be blamed on her.

Though, she does have some gold to spare. And there are books.

At the very least, she should browse what is presented, and search for some arcane tome. Might as well, before she leaves it all behind.

With a contented shrug, the tiefling brought a finger to the corner of her lips and a thumb under her chin, leaning slightly forward as she focused on surveying the area. Slowly sliding her sight from left to right.

Watching the multitudes of peasants roaming about, perambulating, and conversating; haggling prices, waiting in lines, crowding stalls, making way for any laborers transporting goods.

Taking a particular note on the only man looking like a pirate skulking around, then at that tall figure she saw from afar - a bard who seems to be in deep thought, then at the elf counting her coins by a notice board. The girl's hood was up, so how did she know that girl was an elf without looking at their ears? Bow, lots of green, fair-skin, and leaves; decorating the clothing and the hair. If that doesn't constitute an elf, then her whole ensemble says she's not a tiefling.

Other than those three, no one else really caught her eye, and, in her survey, no stall unobscured by a throng of people. Will she need to push her way through just to look at a book?

She sighed.

Sifting herself through a huddle is of no concern, but it's certainly more of a hassle to deal with. It's much different than walking through a crowd; she actually has to put effort into it. Times like these are when she wishes she could just blast a path open.

As it seems, she may just need to wait. Behind the pack. She groaned, already annoyed.

She could tap on their shoulders, make her presence known, drive those people away; which is why she won't. She has but meagre coin to spare, she has a chance to haggle if the vendor is reasonable and knows a quick sale when they see one, and scaring away their customers is likely to hamper her chances.

She sighed. Again, for the eighth time now.

A few coins to spare on a single - ideally cheap - book; she won't be needing a room here as she'll be leaving, so she'll spend the majority, or rather the last, of her gold on provisions for the journey. After that, all her money will have been spent.

She's going to have to be extra aggressive looking for commissions in the next town. Or else she may need to sleep in an alleyway. Maybe eat stray animals, or steal a chicken.

At least bathing was free, in the form of a grand waterfall. She'll be going there first before heading off. Perhaps wash her clothes as well, wash the blood off; she doesn't really care if she's covered in blood or not, but she'd rather not deal with some beastie who sought her blood soaked dress thinking it a meal.

Oh, she can handle herself just fine against a wild animal, but again, it's just more hassle.

Speaking of hassles, crossing her arms in growing ire, the queue has yet to move. Or rather it did move, but so slowly that it may as well haven't.

She's going to be here for a while, isn't she?

In rising boredom, really wanting a book, the tiefling decided to occupy her time looking around.

That pirate-looking man just pocketed a knife. A knife that used to be on a vendor's stall. Maybe she could deal with him, get a reward for his head. Then again, he doesn't look like someone of any importance; she doubts he even has a bounty on his head, and if he does it's probably at a very low price, so low that it's not even worth the effort. Probably not even a pirate.

That bard still hasn't played anything. Stage fright? Must be a terrible bard if he has stage fright. He's been standing there like a statue, clutching his lute, and staring rather seriously into the air all this time. Scared away a few kids, startled some women, and made two guys bump into each other, dropping both of their clay pots broken on the ground. What kind of bard is he if all he can do is stare, and stand super still… Wait, is he a mime!?

She quickly switched her gaze.

Then there's that elf, pompously counting her coins, condescendingly sitting crossed legged on the ground, superciliously breathing by a notice board. Typical elf stuff. It's a wonder why they're here, in a civilised town, and not up in their beloved trees, in their precious forest, talking to animals, making flower crowns, and frolicking about, singing some elven song about trees, and how everyone else sucks compared to them. Typical elf stuff.

Wow, those are a lot of coins. Counting and bagging them, taking notes - surprisingly not on a leaf; that girl seems to know how to handle money.

Speaking of, a glance back to the queue, and it seems to have made steady progress, yet to make any space for her to sift through, but she's been moving with the line. Some people were behind her now, also waiting.

A few more minutes and she'll be at the front, and finally be able to browse the books on display… which was behind her… wait.

Leaning out to the side, she gazed at the book vendor; the lady looked to be both bored and expectantly disappointed. She whirled her sight to the other direction, and she realised that she'd been waiting in line for a fish stall.

No one was queueing up for the book stall. It just so happens that the line passes by it. Immediately wrenching herself from the pack, she strolled past the waiting throng and directly towards the book vendor.

The lady seemed surprised, whether it's because she's a tiefling or because someone actually came to their stall, she couldn't tell. Either way, she quickly perused the wares, and out of all of them, found only a pocket book on common cantrips; flicking through it, landing on a page on prestidigitation. Could be useful later on, and it is pretty cheap as well.

Sold. Pocket book pocketed. Now she needs travel provisions. Another quick gaze around, and still the crowd obscured her vision. She's going to need to move closer.

Making her way across the plaza, keeping a distance away from the pirate-looking common thief - not really wanting to deal with the weirdo - walking past the elf sententiously standing up, now finished with their haughty counting; she sauntered forth by the bard, passing the fountain.

Then she paused, only for a second, hearing a string of notes behind her.

Has the bard finally gotten over his apparent stage fright?

Well, good for him, but he's going to do better than that for her to even think about tossing a coin his way.

Anyhow, back to the matter at hand, where to find a good cheap stall to buy her food from? Actually, she should look at a map first, she could considerably lower her spending depending on the length of the journey to the nearest settlement.

The bard sang.

She stopped.

She knows that song.

It was different, for sure.

Happier, more jovial, energetic even.

Her head slightly bobbing, her foot tapping.

Is he? Could he be?

No one else sang that song. But it's so different, a lot different.

Then… is he…

"Dob?"

~/•/~

The Call for Adventure

---

To be an aristocrat, to be a lord, requires more than just noble blood, or vast amounts of riches, or lands owned.

Education and intelligence, a few of many fundamental aspects for someone to be - and stay - in high society; an extensive knowledge and familiarity of topics concerning the wider world and its workings, well articulated, and possessing, either natural or learned, a certain tact and cordiality in one's presence.

Whether it be for business between another aristocrat, or dealing with the humble peasants, a noble mustn't show a sign of mental weakness if they could help it.

At least, that is what was once required to be an aristocrat of yore.

Lord Arlo Mayweather likes to consider himself a part of - what he considers to be - the true aristocracy, even if his placement is on the lower end spectrum of such hierarchy. One of few men and women above, who cares and invests much of their effort to be more than just a knave dressed in fine clothing spending their near bottomless wealth on decadence and debauchery.

The Mayweathers have nearly-always been those who endeavour to be a good noble figure to look upon; one of just and overall benevolence, whether in passive charity, or merely avoiding engaging in whatever uncouth drivel much of the other aristocratic families take part in.

Arlo personally doesn't care much for the usual lounging and bored excess, and would rather busy himself in simple, yet fulfilling tasks; in all but officially, he more or less rules at least half or a quarter of the town. He is widely regarded as a fair nobleman that the simple commoner could come to freely seek help from, in either advice or an issue to be formally dealt with.

In a moment of self-indulgence, Arlo Mayweather does take pride and satisfaction knowing that the people of Casterfalls view him in such a reputable light. To know he was casted, however faint it may be by comparison, in the same light as Arthur Caster; the infamous yet dearly beloved founder of the town.

He would aid those people to the best of his ability, and in turn he is regarded favourably, and tithes are much more readily given. A feat, he reminds himself, rarely accomplished by the wider aristocracy. He reminds himself this near daily, for if he falters in his judgement, and decency, and falls down the same pit many highborn fall into, most assuredly it would cripple his businesses, and his general living. Most of all, the people would scorn him for such malpractices.

Arlo is a man of reason, and reason says that he would not be able to stay where he is without the people; for what is a king without his servants but a delusional fool with a gilded hat. Such he always introduces himself as mister, not lord, despite technically to be considered one, and would actually prefer to do away the honorific altogether; to further convey that, while he is by status above them, he personally is not, and that he is approachable.

Thus the Mayweather estate is quite well-known by the local populace, and directions to the lofty abode are more or less publicised with easily discernible signs, and the path to it equally easily traversable. Such that even new arrivals would have no trouble finding it, unless said arrival is incompetent.

No, Arlo will never be one to exploit the people under any delusion of grandeur. He is as much a servant to them, as they are to him. His services merely come in a different form, from the mind, tactfully armed to handle any problems beyond the scope of the peasantry - that he is capable of solving.

One such problem, one he is currently rifling through the reports of, are of those who have mysteriously disappeared.

Disappearances are nothing new in Casterfalls, unfortunately, though they are often expected in the valley path, on the way to The Engirdled Cant; a moderately sized village off near the base of the nearby mountain, nestled in a wide rocky outcrop. That, and the forest just west of Casterfalls; with how vast, and unexplored it is, many wayward souls find themselves lost in that labyrinthine woodland, often in fits of drunken stupor, or on a baseless belief to be the best hunter that has ever lived.

Still, whatever reason, wherever it is, each vanishing is to be considered a tragedy.

While many of those cases have been rationally solved, there are still quite a few yet to be uncovered.

As has been said, one such series of cases is what he is currently analysing. And disconcertingly, they are happening in Casterfalls itself. Sometimes, right inside a person's home. Truly an unsettling string of accounts.

"Adderly!" Arlo called out, placing down a report, and setting his reading glasses down. Sat behind his wide desk, a simple built, yet fairly decorated furniture; stacks of paper, and rolls of scrolls orderly scattered about atop it.

Arlo leaned back on his chair, stifling a yawn and rubbing his wearied eyes, as he fought back the urge to slumber right there where he sat. Having been up since the crack of dawn sifting through the piles of pleas, and other such statements. Formal letters from the high constable detailing much more mundane issues, and ones that he has already written a possible solution of, or just a simple response, and put on the sorted stacks of similarly given propositions.

A stack due to be sent.

"You called, my lord?" His loyal butler rhetorically asked, stepping through his office doorway.

Breathing deeply, Arlo placed his hands on the desk, leaned forward, and pushed downwards, aiding his legs standing up. It was quite evident that the man's body was sore from sitting on his chair for hours on end.

"Adderly…" clearing his throat with a cough, "First, I've told you many times to discard the honorific." Lord Arlo then motioned to the assorted stacks, "Second, please have these sent out first thing in the morning. And third, prepare a meal; it's well past dinner, I know, but I'm quite famished." He succinctly ordered, his voice tired, and clearly of low energy.

"I shall have them sent out tomorrow posthaste, my lord, and as to the matters of your meal, my lord, it has already been prepared… my lord." Adderly relayed with a coy smile, familiar with his master's work tendency. Afterwards leaning out of the doorway to call upon another servant, and passing the order on to them.

Arlo paused, sighing, massaging his temple "Thank you, Adderly. As always, your anticipation is much appreciated, and also astonishing." He finished, and promptly ambled towards the ingress.

Entering his moderately lengthy hallways, and heading straight towards the dining room, whilst letting the topic of his work drift away from his mind; bringing his attention towards the state of his residence.

Late in the evening, what few still-awake servants there were busy themselves in their domestic duties; sweeping the floor, dusting the furniture, sifting themselves from room to room, politely greeting him as he passed them by, with his butler following closely behind.

Returning their acknowledgements with his own, along with a tone of gratitude in his voice for their hard work. Arlo then stepped aside to let an unaware maid, carrying a stack of freshly cleaned linen, walk on by; immediately apologised to, once the maid realised who he was.

He waved away her worries, continuing on his path, neither minding nor caring for such an insignificant transgression; stomach quietly rumbling, dictating his priority at the moment.

The scent of his meal entered his nose before he himself had yet to enter the dining room, and already he was in a state of delight. Arranged at the head of the long table were sublimely cooked meat garnished with fine exotic spices, and complemented with an assortment of vegetables, and a nice steaming bowl of broth.

Enough only for him, alone… again.

"Adderly."

"Yes, my lord." Adderly answered, pulling his master's seat for him.

"I couldn't help but notice that there always seems to be only enough food for one man on this table." He pondered out loud.

"Ah. Yes…"

"Is there a reason why my son is unable to join me in my morning meals?" Arlo asked, expecting no such good reason; lifting his arms for Adderly to put a napkin over his lap, and watched as his butler proceeded to cut the pork. He need not mention the lack of his son's presence during dinner, as he himself often eats late due to his work.

"Well, my lord, I regret to inform you that I have yet to even see the young master leave his room." Adderly answered, equally dissatisfied with the young boy's meaningless loafing, and utter lack of avidity to learn.

Arlo sighed, "Of course." softly mocking himself mentally for thinking otherwise. "Of course, why did I even waste a breath to ask?" He asked out loud. Rhetorically, and perhaps ironically.

Adderly, finished slicing the meat, poured water into his lord's glass, and waited beside him.

"All he does is lounge around, and sleep all day. I'd be the luckiest man if he would even grace me with his presence in the hallway. Lucky, or dead and dreaming." Arlo softly ranted, in between bites of his meal.

"If I may speak, my lord?" Arlo motioned him permission, "On the bright side, my lord, at least your son doesn't waste your hard-earned wealth away on vices, or be off away in some grand party, drowning in wine, and making a fool of himself, and in turn embarrassing you." Adderly posed with a half-smile, seeking to alleviate any stress the topic brought.

Arlo chewed on his food, mouth closed and quietly so, swallowing before he responded, "Yes, applause, my son is not as much of a disappointment as he could potentially be." he replied dryly. "I rather have my son not do any of those, and dedicate swathes of his time on his study. We have a private library, tutors best that I could hire, and even an allocated room just for his education; all these fountains of knowledge, and yet he chooses to lay on his bed for days on end."

He paused, reaching for his drink, "If he actually did something else, besides sleeping, perhaps I would not be so displeased with him." Gulping a sip of water, "I'm a reasonable man, am I not, Adderly?"

The butler leaned forward, "I'd say quite so, my lord."

"Yes, and if my son were to entirely discard his studies, refuse any tutors, would I be frustrated at that decision?"

"I believe you would, my lord."

"But if my son then reasoned his decision as wanting to focus more of his time, attention, and effort on other subjects; such as painting, sketching, or writing, or cooking, or even farming, would I be angry?" Arlo posed, downing the rest of the water, slightly wishing it was wine.

"I don't believe you would, my lord."

"Exactly!" Arlo exclaimed, setting the glass down on the table, and having another bite of his meal.

Adderly nodded, taking the now empty glass, refilling it, and motioned for a waiting maidservant to bring up a bottle of wine from the cellar.

"If my dear boy just gave me a reason, a hint that he would rather commit his life to a certain- a certain… s-something, anything! Rather than spend it all on sleeping, I would be more than happy to accommodate his endeavour, whatever it may be, but no! He doesn't. He doesn't have anything at all in his nonexistent schedule. He doesn't seem to have any goals at all, any motivation, to do anything with his life." Arlo paused in his rant, politely dismissing the returning maid holding a vintage. "Too late in the evening." He quickly explained.

"My apologies for assuming, my lord." Adderly bowed, "I misjudged the mood."

Arlo waved the butler's worry away without a word, opting to continue with his fatherly censure, "I am a reasonable man, Adderly. So if he just gives a reason, a good reason, for his indolence…" He sighed. Tirade cut short, for as he said, it was too late in the evening - for a drink, and for a rant - and too exhausted to truly set off.

He fell fully silent, softly shaking his head, before occupying his time eating through the rest of his meal.

"I just… I don't know what to do with hi-"

A scream pierced through the walls of the Mayweather manor.

A scream decidedly belonging to one young man.

Without a moment of hesitation, Arlo Mayweather jolted up from his seat, and ran as quickly as he could to his son's room.

Racing down the hallway, pushing past any servant obscuring his path, "Make way! Make way!" he hollered; a rushing force they'd surely understand the reason for.

Seeing his son's door in his sight, he did not pause to consider, and immediately wrenched it wide open with such force to crack the wall behind its handle.

Practically leaping inside, eyes flickering first from the bed to the chaise lounge in the corner, spinning around with panic and alarm, until settling to face the one direction he paid no mind upon entering.

The window.

Curtains fluttering idly in the midnight wind. Open as fully as it could ever open.

Arlo stumbled a step back.

"My lord! Is everything alri-"

"Get the high constable here, Now!" Arlo raged, fist shaking, face red, and in great distress.

"R-right away, Mr. Mayweather!" Adderly sped down the hallway, shouting for assistance, ordering to wake the rest of the servants and scour the immediate surroundings for any trace of the young master. It took only a glimpse for Adderly to notice that the young master was not in his room.

Arlo Mayweather paced back and forth in his son's room. His worst fear realised, the turmoil that has been blighting Casterfalls of late has reached his home.

Berating himself for even faintly considering that his family would be exempt from it, and subsequently taking absolutely no precaution against it.

His mind in a measure of disarray, the cold evening wind could not equal the chill slithering down his spine.

Heartbeat racing, breathing erratic, he dedicated his focus on calming himself down, rather than torture himself with scenarios.

Sitting down on his son's bed, he willed his worries not to show; teeth clenched, throat strained, and eyes dampened.

Quietly seething at the world for daring to strike at his family.

Beneath the bed, a rat poked its head out from under the fallen covers

Watching the man clutch his head, breathing ever so tensely.

Outside the window, a half-emptied bottle lay hidden in the bushes.

~/~

High constable Bertram Martense likes to consider himself a dutiful man.

Someone who goes above the norm in serving the fine folks of Casterfalls.

Trying to the best of his ability to aid anyone in need of it.

Whether it be settling local disputes, or providing information to any new arrivals, or, more in line with his work, take care of any dastardly criminal, and search for whatever items that have gone missing or simply stolen.

In his career he has participated in a fair amount of investigations in this humble town - meagre and mundane they may be - and since then he has developed a certain knack in the art of deduction. He would not be so bold as to claim he was great at it, or on that matter even good at it, but he surely has acquired enough experience to provide something of value in such cases.

Those who knew him certainly appreciate, and often seek his insights towards issues that in some certain way requires a little more offbeat thinking.

A dutiful man, who is more than happy to help anyone who asks for it. But as of the moment, he is a very confused and highly concerned man.

Woken up late in the evening, told to get his clothing, and in parts ordered and begged for his immediate assistance in the Mayweather estate; situated on the northwestern corner of Casterfalls stood the lofty manor, modest in size compared to most aristocrat's homes.

It was in this brief retelling of sequences that led to the sight he is now currently watching; Mr. Arlo Mayweather sipping from a wine glass, eagerly and quite often, with a vintage standing atop the dinner table beside him, as each gulp served to quell his nerves.

After he was told of Arlo's unsettling discovery, Bertram then politely requested to inspect the room itself.

"P-please, by all means. Do what you need to do." Arlo gave permission, tended to by his butler; wiping a trickle of sweat off his brow. Bertram was then motioned towards a waiting maid who would lead him to the room. And shortly after, he heard both Arlo and his butler's footsteps tailing far behind him.

Entering the room in question, his eyes immediately inspected every nook and cranny, scouring for any suspect detail to come to light in his mind.

"Has this room been recently cleaned?" Bertram inquired, intrigued and bemused by the near impeccable state of the room.

"I - and also the other maids - have only cleaned it this morning, and prior to eventide. Both times when the young master was out bathing." The maid quickly informed, a nervous tone in her voice.

"I see…" Bertram furrowed his brows, dread now brimming. "Were there discarded clothes anywhere?"

"Y-yes." The maid confirmed, astonished, Arlo did not mention it during his account, "Right in front of the window, right there." The maid pointed to where she described it, "I tidied it up after Mr. Mayweather left. It would not be the first time the young master discarded his worn clothes on the floor, so I did not pay it much thought." She explained. "Should I not have done that?" She immediately asked, worried if she did something wrong.

"No, no… You need not concern yourself with that." Bartram hushed her fretting, just as Arlo stood beside the door; a half-empty wine glass clutched in his hand.

Noticing Arlo's presence, the maid then excused herself to stand outside the room, as Bertram turned away to face the window, reflecting on all the details he was given.

Heard a scream, a scream that was swiftly silenced. The door closed, and unlocked. The window was wide open when they first entered. The room bore no sign of a scuffle upon Arlo's entrance, with only the discarded clothing being the most conspicuous aspect.

Neither he nor Arlo were strangers to such details.

The near-exact hallmarks to be found around Casterfalls.

Truly unsettling.

Sporadically throughout the months, a missing person would be reported, the area inspected, the lands scouted, and no matter how long, no matter how extensive, not one single search has returned with good news… not even a body to be buried.

A fact decidedly not lost on Bertram… nor, he presumed, on Arlo.

The air was heavy inside the Mayweather manor.

What is the reason for his presence here? A kind of formality, perhaps. A form of grief, to help ease the truth of the matter.

Grim as it is, insensitive even, Bertram merely went through the motions, lacking the energy to fully commit. Looking intently at the windowsill, he then used his spyglass to look out into the shadowy fields currently occupied by scattered lantern-wielding servants, searching fruitlessly for a sign, a trace of the young Mayweather boy.

"Well?" Arlo inquired, a tone of demand dripping from his voice, "Have you any clues, Bertram?" Arlo stepped forward, handing his now empty glass to his butler.

With a resounding sigh, Bertram closed the window, seeing the approaching dark clouds beginning to hide away the pale moon; rain nears abound.

Turning to face the distressed man, "Arlo…" he paused, looking aside, "Arlo, what do you expect from me?"

"W-what do you mean?" Bewildered by the question, "What do I expect from you? What am I expecting from you? I expect you to do your job, to investigate! I've no aptitude for your line of work, Bertram, so I expect you to apprise me with details that I most certainly have missed." Arlo spouted, gesticulating, and pacing around the room. "Something here is not right, that much I figured out. But surely there's some miniscule detail, some clue adroitly hidden from my daft eyes, that you could no doubt point out, and then pointedly laugh at my incompetence." He concluded, deprecating himself in an attempt to stave off the dire reality.

"Arlo." Bertram watched the man, "Arlo, I'll… I'll do the best that I can, you know this, but… I just don't know where to begin with this-"

"Where to begin!? Tomorrow! Around the town. Someone in that town has taken my boy, yet another wretch seeking a portion of my wealth, and soon enough they'll make their demands, send a letter with an amount in exchange for the safe return of my son. You just track them down and-"

"A-Arlo, please don't- don't fool yourself, you are better than that. You know better. With all the reports, with all the many, many cases-"

"Silence!" Arlo shouted at the top of his voice, "My son is out there, Bertram. He is out there." Arlo insisted. "Perhaps not even abducted, maybe he has finally fully become a disappointment and ran away, and has just been drowning himself in all sorts of debased maelstrom of excess. And now your job is to simply find him, and drag him back here for me to deal with appropriately." Arlo finished, looking out the window, watching his servants rushing back inside.

Bertram made a motion to speak, to retort and strike back with reality, yet ultimately resigned.

Breathing deeply, shaking his head slowly. "I'll… do what I can, Arlo. I can't promise to return with the result that you seek." Bertram made way for the door, "Just know… you have people that care about you, too. And we're here when you need it." He exited, directly heading towards the front door of the manor.

Wishing to have brought a cloak, as of now the rain was pouring quite abundantly.

Making the wet and arduous trek back to his home.

Wishing his old friend the strength to bear the coming grief.

~/~

The midnight shower tapped rapidly against the window glass.

A strumming cadence atop the roof tiles.

Arlo Mayweather breathed deeply.

Adderly set the empty glass down on a nearby table, to which the waiting maid immediately took it away; out of the room, closing the door as she left.

Adderly was no stranger to the plights that have plagued the people of Casterfalls.

Knows the eventual conclusion at the end of each and every investigation of these peculiar cases.

To see Arlo Mayweather, a man of reason, to fall so easily in the first trappings of grief…

At this very moment, Adderly has two options presented to him.

Slowly, but surely, help ease his master to face and accept the harsh reality of the situation, help him come to terms… to mourn…

On the other hand, "Perhaps the constable may not be up for the task."

"Hmm?" Arlo turned to look at his butler, "Adderly? What are you on about?"

"I'm merely pointing out, Mr. Martense is quite the busy man, dealing with other such cases, and no doubt other forms of trouble in the town." Adderly relayed, "Perhaps he expressed dismay as he most likely has quite an amount to deal with already."

Arlo stared pensively at him, "That is a reasonable assessment, Adderly. Mayhaps old Bertram was still worn out from his work this morning."

"If you don't mind me airing my thoughts, Mr. Mayweather, but is it not a little unfair to place all your trust and faith in him? Him alone?"

Arlo slowly started to pace, deep in thought, "Yes, you make a fine point. It is rather unfair to entrust the search of my son, and the investigations of other disappearances to rest on just one man."

"Strenuous, indeed. Strained and stretched to solve the many, many problems in the town." Adderly added, "Perhaps tasking a separate private group may ease the tension off of Mr. Martense's shoulders. And unlike Mr. Martense, these individuals you may hire are free to focus all their time, effort, and attention in the search for the young master."

Arlo paced until he was back in front of the window, watching droplets trickle down the glass panes.

Adderly continued, "If I may suggest, it would be of great aid if we were to put a quest out on the town notice board. It would no doubt broaden the scope of the search."

That caught Arlo's attention, and equally incited doubt. "While that is a fine idea, Adderly, I'm not so open to the idea of sharing my troubles with the public. Make no mistake about my desire for my son's return, but think of the backlash the people would have about the news. The Mayweather reputation would surely take a knee." Arlo furrowed his brow, "Who would rely on someone who could not even protect his own family; such information breeds discord."

Adderly held a digit up to retort.

"Yes. What father am I to worry about such a trivial thing as the public eye, but I would rather have my son returning to a home, than an angry mob. And not only that, but I also prefer not to trouble the already troubled." Arlo explained before Adderly could form a word.

"Ah. Still quite insensitive, I'm sure you'd agree." Arlo nodded abashedly, "But, to pose a thought, it could be argued to be more beneficial than not." Adderly paused, letting the notion seep, "As to the matter of the family reputation, do consider this; an aristocrat unafraid, unashamed to come to the lowly peasantry for help. Not for the sake of one's business and profits, but for the sake of their child. Quite unheard of, well as far as I know. A typical noble would rather ostracise and banish their own family if it were for the preservation of their reputation."

Arlo stared for a second.

"Yes, you've also considered exiling the young master before - I can tell - and have just worried about your reputation mere moments ago, however your reasons are far more noble than the reasons of the usual… noble." Adderly held a palm up, "You wish to cast him out in order for him to grow, and learn. You wish to maintain your reputation so as to further provide for your family, and the people. I'd say you've exuded more nobility than any other in your position."

Arlo pondered for a moment, earnestly considering, "Be that as it may, I'm still not so inclined to believe that the humble peasant could feasibly accomplish such a task. Especially, as I presume, that they would be dealing with armed criminals."

"Well, they are not exactly what I have in mind, Mr. Mayweather." Adderly went on, "As you said, the people who have taken your son are highly likely to be dangerous. Quite beyond the ability of the commoner to deal with, I assume. Instead, we settle our sights on those individuals whose careers are shaped and tempered by willingly placing themselves upon such perilous positions."

Arlo thought about it, "Are you asking me to hire some mercenaries to find my son?"

"No, no, Mr. Mayweather… Not at all." Adderly gave a smile.

Arlo stared at him curiously, "Then what are you suggesting, Adderly?"

The butler turned and walked towards the young master's personal desk.

"Tomorrow, on market day, where the town centre is at its most populated."

Adderly fetched a scroll of paper, and a quill dipped in ink.

"Placed on the local notice board; a simple offer, a reward… "

Adderly led Arlo Mayweather to the desk..

Quill placed in Arlo's hand.

"The Call for Adventure."